Chapter 3: The Company Behind the Beach House
The next morning, I woke in a small motel room overlooking the parking lot.
I had slept badly. Every time a car door slammed outside, I opened my eyes. Every time my phone vibrated, my heart jumped.
At six-thirty, I gave up trying to sleep and made coffee with the little machine beside the television.
Then I called James.
He answered before the second ring.
“Margaret, I've been expecting your call.””
“I received messages from Megan last night.””
“Have you saved them?””
“Yes.””
“Don't delete anything. Forward screenshots to my office, but preserve the original messages as well.””
I sent them while we spoke.
“Did you learn anything about the company?”” I asked.
“Some things. Seabreeze Family Holdings was registered recently. The paperwork identifies a manager whose name we need to investigate further.””
“Who?””
“Daniel Mercer.””
The name meant nothing to me.
“Is he connected to Robert?””
“I don't know yet. His business address is associated with several property investment companies.””
I looked at the motel curtains.
“Is my house part of some investment scheme?””
“That's one possibility. I don't want to draw conclusions before we've examined the records.””
James told me he had submitted an initial notice disputing the transfer and was working with the appropriate professionals to ensure the county's records reflected the dispute. He had also requested available filing information through the proper channels.
“What should I do now?”” I asked.
“First, check your financial accounts for unfamiliar activity. Second, write down everything you remember about the last few months. Dates, conversations, visitors, requests for documents. Small details can become important.””
I took a notebook from my suitcase.
“Anything else?””
“Yes. Don't go back to the house to confront Megan. If you need to retrieve belongings, we'll arrange a safe and lawful way to do that.””
I agreed, although the idea of asking permission to enter my own home made my stomach turn.
After the call, I reviewed my bank accounts.
My checking account looked normal. My savings account was untouched. There were no unfamiliar withdrawals.
For several minutes, relief loosened the knot in my chest.
Then I remembered my credit report.
I logged into the service I used to monitor it and requested a fresh review.
A new inquiry appeared.
It had been made nine days earlier by a financial company I had never heard of.
The inquiry referenced a potential real-estate-backed credit application.
I read the entry three times.
Then I called James again.
“There's something else.””
He listened as I explained.
“Don't contact the lender through any number listed in suspicious paperwork,” he advised.
“We'll independently verify the institution and ask what documentation was submitted. An inquiry alone doesn't establish that a loan was approved, but it deserves immediate attention.””
I wrote the date in my notebook.
Nine days ago.
Two days after the alleged transfer document had been filed.
Someone might have been trying to do more than change the ownership of my home.
Someone might have been trying to use it to obtain money.
At eight-fifteen, I received a call from Robert.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“Mom, where are you?””
“Why?””
“Because I want to talk.””
“You hung up on me yesterday.””
“I was angry.””
“So was I.””
He sighed.
“Can we meet for breakfast?””
I thought about refusing. Then I remembered James's advice to document everything.
“Where?””
“The Harbor Grill. Ten o'clock.””
“I'll be there.””
He arrived twelve minutes late, wearing the navy jacket I had given him for his last birthday. His hair was uncombed, and his eyes looked tired.
For a brief, painful second, I saw the little boy who used to run into my sewing room after school, carrying his spelling tests and asking me to check his answers.
Then he sat down and pushed a menu aside.
“Megan says you're trying to have her arrested.””
“I have not contacted the police to accuse her of anything.””
“But you've hired a lawyer.””
“Yes.””
“Mom, this is family.””
I looked at him.
“Does family mean I should ignore a document that transfers my home without my permission?””
He rubbed his forehead.
“You're jumping to conclusions.””
“Then help me understand.””
A waitress approached. Robert ordered coffee and eggs without looking at the menu. I ordered tea.
When she left, I leaned forward.
“What is Seabreeze Family Holdings?””
His hand froze around the sugar packet.
“You've been digging into this?””
“It's my property.””
“It's a company.””
“I gathered that.””
He stared out the window.
“Megan and I have been looking at investment opportunities. Property can be a good way to build something for the future.””
“Then buy your own property.””
“It's not that simple.””
“Why?””
“Because we don't have enough capital.””
I waited.
He finally looked at me.
“The beach house is valuable. It has equity. A company can use that equity to secure financing.””
My stomach turned.
“You wanted to borrow money against my house?””
“Not exactly.””
“What does that mean?””
“We were exploring options.””
“Did you submit a transfer document in my name?””
He leaned back, irritation replacing discomfort.
“I didn't forge anything.””
“I didn't ask whether you forged it. I asked whether you submitted it.””
His jaw tightened.
“I'm not answering questions like this.””
“Then answer one question as my son. Did you know someone was trying to transfer my house?””
He looked down at his coffee.
That silence told me more than his denials had.
“Robert.””
He rubbed his face.
“Megan said you would eventually give us the property anyway.””
“Who said that?””
“She thought it was reasonable to start arranging things early.””
“Arranging what? My death?””
He flinched.
“Don't say that.””
“Then don't treat me as though I'm already gone.””
For a moment, the restaurant noise seemed to fade.
He looked genuinely ashamed.
Then his phone vibrated.
He glanced at the screen and immediately turned it facedown.
“Megan?”” I asked.
“It's work.””
“Show me.””
His eyes flashed.
“No.””
I sat back.
“Then we're finished.””
“Mom, wait.””
I reached for my handbag.
He caught my wrist, then released it when he saw my expression.
“I'm sorry,” he said quickly.
“I shouldn't have done that.””
I remained seated.
“What exactly have you done, Robert?””
He lowered his voice.
“The company was supposed to help us get financing. Megan found someone who said the paperwork could be arranged quickly. We were told there was a way to structure the deal without forcing you to sell the property.””
“Who told you that?””
“A man named Daniel Mercer.””
I remembered the name James had mentioned.
“What did Mercer ask you to provide?””
“Information about the house. The estimated value, property taxes, insurance details.””
“And did you give him those things?””
Robert nodded.
“Where did you get them?””
“Some were public records. Some came from documents Megan had.””
“What documents?””
He looked away.
“I don't know.””
The waitress brought our food. Neither of us touched it.
“Robert, did you know a transfer document had been filed using my signature?””
His face drained of color.
“I knew a document was being prepared.””
“Did you know it had already been submitted?””
He hesitated.
“Yes.””
The word barely left his mouth.
I felt as though the floor had dropped beneath me.
“You knew.””
“I thought it was preliminary.””
“You thought somebody could transfer my house as a preliminary step?””
“Megan said it was just paperwork. She said we'd explain everything to you once the financing was approved.””
I stared at my son.
“And you believed her?””
He didn't answer.
I remembered his first day of school. His college graduation. The day he called me after Daniel died and asked whether I was going to be all right living alone.
He had promised to take care of me.
Now he was sitting across from me, admitting that he had knowingly allowed strangers to handle paperwork involving my home without telling me.
“What did Mercer promise you?”” I asked.
Robert swallowed.
“He said the company could raise enough money to help us buy another property and pay off some debts.””
“What debts?””
His face changed.
I had found something he didn't want to discuss.
“Robert?””
He pushed his plate away.
“It's complicated.””
“Then start at the beginning.””
He looked toward the restaurant door, as if he were considering leaving.
Finally, he said, “Megan and I owe more money than you think.””
“How much?””
“I can't tell you.””
“Can't or won't?””
“Both.””
I nodded slowly.
“You were prepared to risk my house because you couldn't face telling me the truth about your finances.””
“That's not fair.””
“Is it false?””
He said nothing.
I stood.
“I'm going back to James.””
“Mom, please don't make this worse.””
I picked up my handbag.
“Robert, you have already made it worse.””
He rose halfway from his chair.
“If you report this, Megan could lose everything.””
I looked at him.
“And what about me?””
He opened his mouth, then closed it.
I walked out.
Outside, the wind carried the smell of salt and rain. I sat in my car and cried for the first time since arriving at the beach house.
Not because I was afraid of losing the property.
Because I was beginning to understand how easily my son had decided that losing it was an acceptable risk.
When I reached James's office, he listened without interrupting.
Then he asked a question that made me sit perfectly still.
“Margaret, did Robert tell you whether the company had already received any money?””
“No.””
James turned his computer screen toward me.
A new document had arrived through the official records channel.
It was a preliminary financing submission connected to Seabreeze Family Holdings.
The proposed collateral was my beach house.
And beside the estimated property value was a figure that made my breath catch.
The application sought financing of $640,000.
I looked at James.
“They were going to borrow six hundred and forty thousand dollars against my home?””
“That's what the document indicates.””
“But the house is worth nowhere near that much.””
“Not according to the valuation submitted with this application.””
He enlarged the page.
Someone had inflated the property's estimated value and attached photographs of renovations I had completed over the past several years.
The kitchen.
The deck.
The new roof.
My flower beds.
Someone had been studying my home as carefully as I had.
Then I noticed the final attachment.
A photograph of a document bearing my signature.
It was not the transfer deed.
It was a copy of the handwritten note I had once given Robert when he purchased his first car.
At the bottom, I had written, Love always, Mom.
Someone had cropped the signature from the note and used it as a reference for the forged documents.
James stared at the image.
“Whoever prepared this had access to something personal.””
I felt the blood drain from my face.
There was only one person I remembered showing that note to recently.
Megan.
She had asked to borrow an old photo album three months earlier, claiming she wanted to create a surprise anniversary gift for Robert.
The note had been tucked inside the album.
I gripped the edge of James's desk.
“James, I think I know where she got my signature.””
He looked up.
“Tell me.””
And as I explained, another thought began to take shape.
May you like
Megan hadn't simply stumbled into an opportunity to take my house.
She had been collecting pieces of my life long before the reunion.
