Chapter 3: The Undispersed Funds

The following week brought a torrent of Kincaid’s intimidation. A formal eviction proceeding landed on our doorstep, followed by a certified letter demanding five thousand dollars for “pre-existing structural damages” he alleged we were responsible for. Sarah’s bank, under pressure from Kincaid’s legal team, even temporarily froze her account for a “routine audit” that felt anything but routine. Our financial world was collapsing around us.

“He’s trying to drown us,” Sarah said one evening, staring blankly at the stack of bills. Her eyes were shadowed, her movements slow. The fear was back, not just for herself, but for me.

I met Dr. Sharma again, this time in a quiet university café. The clatter of coffee cups seemed distant as I recounted Kincaid’s escalating tactics.

“This is classic Kincaid,” she said, her expression grim. “He’s using every lever he has. The legal system, financial pressure, sheer intimidation.”

“What can we do?” I asked, feeling helpless against such a coordinated assault.

“We need leverage,” she replied, pushing a folder across the table. “And I think I’ve found where Kincaid’s true vulnerability lies.”

She opened the folder, revealing a series of meticulously compiled notes and documents. “For years, I’ve suspected there was more to Project Raven than just unethical patent acquisition. Companies rarely engage in such high-risk activities without an elaborate structure to protect their operatives and, more importantly, to keep them silent.”

“You mean a hush fund?” I ventured, remembering my mother’s fear.

“Precisely,” Dr. Sharma affirmed, nodding. “My research indicates that around the time Project Raven was wound down, a significant ‘incentive trust’ was established. Ostensibly, it was to reward key members for their contributions and secure their loyalty through a final payout.”

“And it wasn’t fully dispersed?” I asked, a new layer of dread forming in my stomach. This was the twist she’d hinted at.

“That’s my theory,” she confirmed, her gaze steady. “I’ve tracked what I could through public records and old corporate filings. The initial capital allocation was enormous, far more than what was typically needed for severance packages. But the paper trail for disbursements ends abruptly.”

“So, someone kept the money,” I finished, the implication hitting me hard.

“Exactly. And based on his position, his rising influence within the corporate legal world at the time, and his direct involvement in Project Raven’s closure, I believe Preston Kincaid was directly involved in its clandestine management.” Dr. Sharma’s voice dropped. “He likely became the secret trustee, responsible for its administration and, crucially, its continued secrecy.”

My mind raced. Kincaid, not just a lawyer overseeing a dodgy unit, but actively managing a vast, secret fund that he then withheld? This wasn’t just about covering up unethical tactics; this was about outright fraud.

“Why would he do that?” I asked, though the answer was already forming.

“Greed, Mr. Finch,” Dr. Sharma stated plainly. “Pure, unadulterated greed. Imagine millions, perhaps tens of millions, sitting in an account that you alone control, under the guise of an ‘incentive trust’ that was never fully paid out. It would be a powerful, personal slush fund. And a powerful motive to keep Project Raven buried.”

This explained everything. Kincaid’s immediate, violent reaction to seeing Mom’s tattoo wasn’t just about a past he wanted hidden. It was about a fortune he had stolen and was still actively hiding. He wasn’t just afraid of exposure; he was afraid of losing everything he’d built on stolen wealth.

“So, he knew the trust existed, and he used his position to control it,” I summarized, trying to make sense of the complexity. “And by threatening my mom with a fake perjury charge, he ensured she, and presumably others, wouldn’t speak up or claim their share.”

“A perfect mechanism for control,” Dr. Sharma agreed. “Keep the recipients intimidated and dependent on your silence, while you quietly absorb the remaining funds.”

“What kind of money are we talking about?” I asked, suddenly feeling lightheaded.

“Based on the initial capital, and two decades of accrued interest and investments… potentially hundreds of millions,” she revealed, the number hanging heavy in the air. “It would have been a substantial endowment.”

Hundreds of millions. My landlord, the man threatening to evict us over five thousand dollars in trumped-up damages, was secretly sitting on a fortune meant for others. The injustice burned.

“So Kincaid’s not just a powerful landlord trying to protect his reputation,” I said, “he’s a criminal who embezzled a massive amount of money.”

“Exactly,” Dr. Sharma confirmed. “And that makes him vulnerable. If we can find definitive proof of this trust, and his management of it, we expose not just unethical practices, but outright fraud. That’s a different caliber of charge entirely.”

The conversation shifted to the “coded ledger” from my grandfather. Dr. Sharma believed it might contain clues to the trust’s specific structure or even its location. “Your grandfather was a prosecutor. He was likely investigating this, or at least collecting information. He wouldn’t have just kept names.”

I thought about his meticulous, almost obsessive nature. It made sense. He must have seen something, suspected something, even back then. He wouldn’t have let it go.

“My mom’s bank account is still frozen,” I told Dr. Sharma, the reality of our immediate crisis still pressing. “And the eviction notice is real.”

“We need to move quickly,” she agreed. “Kincaid will keep squeezing you. The more pressure he applies, the more desperate he is to keep something hidden. And now we know what that something is: the Project Raven Incentive Trust.”

I walked back to my apartment, the city lights blurring around me. The thought of Kincaid’s immense, ill-gotten wealth made my blood boil. He was living a lavish life, while my mother, tormented by his threats, struggled to keep a roof over our heads. This wasn’t just a legal battle; it was a personal vendetta against a man who had stolen my mother’s peace and now threatened our survival.

Sarah was still at the kitchen table, staring at the demand for repairs. I sat opposite her, pushing Dr. Sharma’s folder closer to her.

“Mom,” I said, “Kincaid isn’t just trying to silence you because of Project Raven’s ethics. He’s doing it because he stole from the trust fund that was supposed to pay out to everyone involved.”

She looked at me, her eyes wide with shock. “Stole? What are you talking about?”

“Dr. Sharma believes he diverted millions, maybe hundreds of millions, from an incentive trust created for Project Raven members,” I explained, the words feeling huge and heavy in my mouth. “He was the secret trustee. He never dispersed the funds. He kept them for himself.”

Her face went pale, a slow understanding dawning in her eyes. “Millions… all those years… he just… kept it?” She closed her eyes, a shudder running through her. “I knew something was wrong. The numbers never added up on the official wind-down. But he threatened me so badly, I just buried it.”

“He thought he was safe,” I said, my voice hardening. “He thought he could use that perjury charge to scare you into silence forever. But he didn’t account for you having a son who wouldn’t give up.”

Her hand reached across the table, covering mine. “Elias,” she whispered, a fragile hope in her voice. “What do we do now?”

“We find the proof,” I told her, squeezing her hand. “The proof of that trust, and his theft. And then we hit him where it hurts most.”

The next day, I started going through my grandfather’s things again, with a new sense of purpose. The coded ledger was a puzzle, but maybe it wasn’t the only piece. Dr. Sharma’s words echoed in my mind: *He wouldn’t have just kept names.* My grandfather was a man who saw injustice and pursued it relentlessly. He must have left something more. I was now on the hunt for Kincaid’s hundreds of millions.