If you let my wife take me back to the executive suite, I won’t make it to my seventh birthday, six-year-old Julian whispered, his small fingers digging into my leather motorcycle vest on a 104-d...
The county recorder’s office was a labyrinth of aging file cabinets and hushed bureaucrats. After hours, it felt like a ghost town. The fluorescent lights hummed with a sterile efficiency, casting long shadows across the polished linoleum floors. My staff access key, an old perk from my early days at Apex Capital, felt heavy and illicit in my hand.
I knew exactly where to go. Gerald Croft’s appraisal filings from the past six months were under lock and key, but my old department stored the master index. The air was thick with the scent of paper and stale coffee.
I found the specific box, pulled out the hefty file. The Voss Holdings valuation report. My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Croft’s signature was unmistakable, bold and arrogant. The report detailed an environmental hazard assessment, citing “significant subsurface contamination” and “unmitigated brownfield risks” for the downtown Voss properties. The conclusion: a certified valuation of “zero dollars.”
It was a blatant, fabricated lie. Marcus had uncovered the truth; these properties sat on invaluable water rights. Croft’s report was a masterpiece of deception, designed to facilitate a steal of epic proportions.
Then, my eyes caught something else, stapled to the back of the report. A physical property easement receipt. It looked like a standard transport manifest. My gaze skimmed the details – pickup location, drop-off, designated carrier.
And there it was. Under “Designated Transport Vehicle,” a series of alphanumeric characters. My own personal motorcycle registration number.
My stomach dropped. Victoria hadn’t just used my name. She was meticulously weaving me into the fabric of the fraud itself, making it appear as though I was the logistics coordinator, the one facilitating the illicit land transfer. This wasn’t just about her ambition; it was about my undoing. If this came to light, I wouldn’t just be an unwitting dupe; I’d be framed as a central figure in the scheme.
The cool, quiet office suddenly felt suffocating. Every hum of the lights, every distant creak, seemed to echo the sound of a trap snapping shut around me.
More Stories
+ There are no comments
Add yours