Chapter 6 - My Father's SecretThe gun was an old .38 revolver Dad kept locked in a safe.
He had the patient voice of someone who had learned that frightened people often revealed more when nobody rushed them.
Rachel and I met him the next morning.
Melissa joined by phone with her attorney.
By then she had finally taken my advice.
Her lawyer's first recommendation had apparently been that she stop saying anything to anybody without counsel present.
A little late.
But useful.
Detective Bell wanted specifics about the cabin.
Melissa gave him directions.
North of Duluth.
Private road.
Blue metal roof.
No visible house number.
Grant had instructed her father to come alone, but Dad refused to drive that far at night.
She dropped him near the driveway and waited at a gas station less than two miles away.
Ninety-seven minutes later, Dad called.
When he climbed into her car, his right sleeve was stained dark near the cuff.
“What did he say?” Bell asked.
“That Grant cut his hand.”
“Did you see Grant?”
“No.”
“Did your father appear injured?”
“No.”
“Was he carrying anything?”
Melissa hesitated.
“A folder.”
“What kind?”
“Brown envelope. Legal size.”
“And afterward?”
“He told me the problem was handled.”
“What problem?”
“The paperwork.”
Bell exchanged a look with Rachel.
“What date?”
Melissa gave it.
I opened my calendar.
That date meant something.
I had been in Madison for a three-day conference.
My house had been empty.
Bell asked me who knew.
“My family.”
“Anyone else?”
“Employees, probably. It was a public industry event.”
“Security cameras?”
“Cloud backups for ninety days.”
He asked me to preserve them.
We checked before leaving the office.
At 2:13 a.m. the morning after Dad's visit to Grant's cabin, the detached garage camera captured a person walking across my property.
Male.
Similar height and build to Dad.
Face obscured by a hood.
He entered using the garage code.
Stayed thirty-one minutes.
Left carrying nothing visible.
Bell froze the image.
“Your father?”
“Probably.”
My chest tightened.
That meant the box of documents might have been placed in my garage that night.
Why?
Hidden storage?
Or insurance?
The answer arrived that afternoon.
Patricia Lowell called me.
I almost didn't answer.
Rachel told me to put it on speaker.
Patricia sounded like she had been crying.
“Daniel, I need to talk to you.”
“You can talk to my attorney.”
“I don't want Harold to know.”
Rachel identified herself.
Patricia became silent.
Then she said, “Fine.”
“What did you do?” I asked.
Her breath shook.
“Your father told me you had agreed to help Melissa.”
“Did you notarize my signature?”
“He brought signed documents.”
“Signed by whom?”
“He said you signed them.”
“You never watched me sign.”
“No.”
“Then why notarize them?”
“I shouldn't have.”
“That isn't an explanation.”
“We've known your family for thirty years.”
“You risked my house because you knew my father?”
“It wasn't supposed to become this.”
“What was it supposed to become?”
“A temporary loan.”
Rachel interrupted.
“Patricia, you should have counsel.”
“I already do.”
“Then why are you calling Daniel?”
“Because Harold lied to me.”
Dad seemed to be doing that to everyone.
“How?”
“He told me the lake property was eventually being transferred into a family trust.”
“It wasn't.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
She began crying.
“He asked me for a second notarization.”
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What document?”
“A statement saying you personally appeared before me and confirmed the loan.”
My stomach turned.
“Did you sign it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because by then Grant had contacted me directly.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“What did Grant say?”
“He wanted me to backdate documents.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“What happened after you refused?”
“He threatened to report the first notarization.”
That was why Dad went to the cabin.
Maybe.
Patricia continued.
“I told Harold I was done. He said he would handle Grant.”
“Did he tell you how?”
“No.”
“Did you write the note under my door?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
Rachel and I looked at each other.
“You were at my house?”
“I followed them from the hotel.”
“Why didn't you just call me?”
“I was scared.”
“Of my father?”
“Of Grant.”
“What do you know about him?”
Patricia took several seconds to answer.
“He has people watching properties.”
“Why?”
“He doesn't only lend money.”
“What does he do?”
“He finds distressed people with assets. He lends them more than they can repay. Then he takes the assets.”
“That sounds like predatory lending, not forgery.”
“It gets worse.”
“How?”
“If the borrower doesn't have enough collateral, Grant helps them find it.”
I understood immediately.
Family.
Business partners.
Parents.
Children.
Anybody with property.
Patricia said Grant had encouraged Dad to “bring in” my lake house once he discovered its value.
Dad initially refused.
Then Melissa's debts escalated.
Grant offered a solution.
My property.
My signature.
My future.
“He told Harold,” Patricia said, “that families fight about money all the time, but they almost never prosecute each other.”
That sentence made Rachel sit back.
It was clever.
Ugly.
And probably often true.
Grant had bet my love for my parents would be stronger than my willingness to defend myself.
Dad had made the same bet.
“Why did Dad go to the cabin?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Melissa said he came back with blood on his shirt.”
Patricia stopped breathing for a moment.
“Patricia?”
“I need to go.”
“Why?”
“Daniel, don't go near Grant.”
“Why?”
She hung up.
Detective Bell arrived at my house less than an hour later.
Patricia had contacted her attorney.
Her attorney contacted investigators.
She was offering cooperation.
And she had something important.
Emails.
Text messages.
Recorded voicemails.
Including one from Grant Voss.
Bell didn't tell me everything in it.
He told me enough.
Grant knew my father's documents were fraudulent.
He knew my signature was questionable.
And he intended to use the lien anyway.
“There's something else,” Bell said.
“What?”
“The cabin Melissa described doesn't belong to Grant.”
“Who owns it?”
“A man named Elliot Crane.”
I had never heard of him.
“Who is he?”
“Former business partner of Grant Voss.”
“Former?”
Bell nodded.
“He disappeared three weeks ago.”
The room went quiet.
“When?”
Bell gave the date.
The night my father went to the cabin.
Rachel asked the question I couldn't.
“Are you suggesting Harold had something to do with his disappearance?”
Bell's expression remained neutral.
“I'm suggesting we need to talk to your father.”
My phone buzzed.
Mom.
I answered.
Her voice was barely audible.
“Daniel?”
“What's wrong?”
“Your father is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“He left the hotel this morning.”
“In the Buick?”
“Yes.”
“Did he say where?”
“No.”
“Did he take his phone?”
“He left it here.”
Detective Bell was already standing.
Mom started crying.
“And Daniel?”
May you like
“What?”
“He took the gun.”
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