Chapter 4 - The Audit of Lies
Sunday morning brought a grey, dismal rain that swept across central Ohio.
I drove Dad back to his house in my SUV. He sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window at the passing suburban sprawl, silent and withered. The grand, five-bedroom brick home in the upscale suburb stood at the end of a long cul-de-sac—a monument to Richard Collins's life work.
When we stepped inside, the house felt unnaturally quiet.
The remnants of Thanksgiving dinner were still sitting on the dining table, just as we had left them on Friday night. The spilled spaghetti on the hardwood floor had dried into a dark, crusty stain.
Dad looked at the stain and quickly turned his eyes away.
"I'll clean that up," he muttered.
"Leave it," I said, walking past him toward his home office at the back of the house. "We have work to do."
For the next eight hours, I stripped my father's office bare.
I pulled down tax returns, real estate deeds, loan agreements, and bank statements going back five years. Dad sat in an armchair in the corner, watching me work with the muted horror of a patient watching a surgeon remove a malignant tumor.
What I found was far worse than the $450,000 wire transfer.
"Dad," I said, throwing a thick folder onto his desk. "When did you take out a second mortgage on this house?"
Dad blinked, confused. "A second mortgage? I didn't. This house was paid off in 2018."
"Then why does Fifth Third Bank have a $200,000 home equity line of credit secured against this property, drawn down to the absolute maximum as of four months ago?"
Dad stood up, his face draining of all color. "What? No! I never signed anything like that!"
I pulled out the notarized loan application and held it in front of his face. "Here's the signature. It's yours—or rather, a very convincing forgery executed by Rebecca using her Power of Attorney."
"Two... two hundred thousand?" Dad gasped, stumbling toward the desk.
"And that's not all," I continued, pulling up the utility records and municipal tax filings on my laptop. "The commercial plaza on Maple Street? The property taxes haven't been paid in two years. The city has placed a tax lien on the building for $68,000. She was collecting the rental checks from the tenants, depositing them into a separate account she controlled, and sending you fake monthly income reports."
Dad collapsed onto the desk, his hands clutching his chest. "My God... my God... she ruined me. I'm ruined."
"You're not ruined yet," I said sharply, refusing to let him sink into self-pity. "But you are on the brink of bankruptcy. She didn't just steal from you, Dad. She used your entire estate as her personal credit card while you were busy bragging to the neighbors about how successful she was."
"Why?" Dad wept, his head resting against the mahogany wood of his desk. "Why would she do this to me? I gave her everything! I paid off her credit cards in college! I bought her first house in Chicago! I took care of Mason! I never asked her for a single penny!"
"That's exactly why she did it, Dad," I said, leaning over the desk. "Because you never gave her boundaries. You taught her that rules didn't apply to her, that consequences were things that happened to other people, and that no matter what she destroyed, you would fix it for her. She didn't respect you, Dad. She viewed you as a mark."
The truth hit him with devastating force. He didn't argue. He didn't defend her. He just wept bitterly into his hands.
Suddenly, my phone rang. The caller ID showed an Indianapolis area code.
I answered it on speakerphone.
"Daniel Collins?" a stern male voice spoke.
"Yes, this is Daniel."
"This is Detective Miller with the Marion County Sheriff's Department in Indiana. We received an emergency warrant request from the Columbus Police Department regarding Rebecca Collins. We just executed a search warrant at a residential address in Carmel, Indiana."
Dad sat up instantly, his tear-streaked face fixated on the phone.
"Did you find her?" I asked.
"We located Rebecca Collins, along with a male subject identified as Gregory Vance," Detective Miller reported. "They were in the process of packing a rental truck with high-value personal assets, luxury goods, and electronics purchased over the last forty-eight hours. We also recovered three cashier's checks totaling $150,000 that had been drawn from local accounts."
"Is she under arrest?" I asked.
"Both subjects are in custody," Miller replied. "She is being held at the Marion County Jail pending extradition back to Ohio. Her son, Mason, has been placed in the temporary custody of Child Protective Services until a legal guardian can be designated."
Dad gasped. "Mason... my grandson... in protective services?"
"Who is speaking?" the detective asked sharply.
"This is Richard Collins," Dad cried out, grabbing at the phone. "Detective, please! That's my grandson! He's eleven years old! You can't put him in a home!"
"Mr. Collins," Detective Miller said, his tone softening slightly but remaining professional. "Your daughter is currently facing multiple felony counts of grand theft, identity fraud, and interstate transportation of stolen property. Mr. Vance is facing conspiracy charges. If you wish to claim custody of the minor, you will need to contact Indiana CPS immediately and present yourself for a background evaluation."
Dad looked at me, his eyes wide with absolute desperate plea. "Daniel... we have to go get Mason. We have to go to Indiana."
I looked at my father, remembering his words from forty-eight hours ago: “Make your kid apologize right now or get out of my house forever!”
May you like
I took a deep breath. "I'll drive you to Indianapolis, Dad. But we are going to do this my way. No more lying. No more protecting criminals. Do you understand?"
"Yes," Dad sobbed. "Yes, Daniel. Anything you say."
