Chapter 7 - The Audit of the Past
While Regina and I dismantled the ghost of Cynthia’s kitchen, Neil and Todd were locked in a very different kind of battle across town.
The financial restitution agreement Todd had signed under duress was proving to be far more complicated than an easy signature on a piece of paper. Cynthia’s LLC, through which she had funneled dividends and leveraged the Crescent Mill property, was entangled in a web of speculative real estate investments and inflated contractor loans.
On a rainy Thursday evening, Neil walked into the kitchen, shedding his damp wool coat and tossing a thick folder onto the island. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his sleeves rolled up to his forearms.
“You look like you just wrestled a concrete mixer,” I said, handing him a mug of hot coffee.
“Worse,” Neil groaned, sinking onto a stool. “I wrestled Cynthia’s forensic accountant.”
Regina looked up from the dining table, where she was reviewing trust amendments with a magnifying glass. “Did she hide more assets?”
“Oh, she tried,” Neil said, taking a grateful sip of the coffee. “She set up three subsidiary shell accounts under maiden names and distant cousins in Delaware. But Todd brought me all her physical backup drives from their home office in Manhasset yesterday. He wants out from under her legal liability so badly he’s willing to burn down every financial scheme she spent the last five years building.”
I leaned against the counter. “Does Todd know she was planning to drop him the second her name was secure on the title here?”
“He suspected it,” Neil replied grimly. “When I showed him the wire transfer logs proving she was quietly moving equity from his commercial construction accounts into personal offshore crypto wallets under her sole control... well, let’s just say Todd spent the last three hours throwing her designer handbags into contractor trash bags on his front lawn.”
A heavy silence settled over the kitchen. It was hard to feel sorry for Cynthia, but the sheer scale of her self-destruction was staggering. She had traded her family, her marriage, and her dignity for a portfolio of appearances that vanished the second a legal spotlight was shone on them.
“What happens to the house now, legally?” I asked.
“The title is clean,” Neil confirmed, tapping the folder. “Mr. Harrison filed the final injunction this morning. The quitclaim deed Cynthia forced your grandmother to sign under coercion has been officially invalidated by superior court order, citing elder financial abuse. The estate is fully restored to the original trust parameters, with Regina as life tenant and you and Neil as successor trustees.”
Regina closed her legal binder with a decisive snap. “Which means,” she announced, her voice ringing with authority, “we can finally move forward with the renovations Cynthia blocked for a decade.”
I blinked. “Renovations?”
“This house has needed a proper structural overhaul of the east wing since nineteen-ninety-five,” Regina said with a sly grin. “Your grandfather wanted to turn it into an independent apartment for when we grew old. Cynthia turned it into a walk-in shoe closet and a yoga studio.”
May you like
Neil laughed out loud. “A yoga studio? In a historic preservation district?”
“Exactly,” Regina said, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “And I want it turned into a proper library and art studio for Wesley and Anna. Starting Monday.”
