That evening, Jenna walked into my office with a thick courier envelope. “This is from the private investigator. Marked urgent.”
I opened the clasp. Inside was a graveyard of financial ruin. Tyler Morris wasn’t just a mid-level manager with a big ego; he was a professional con artist. At the top of the file was a sticky note with a familiar, shaky handwriting.
Morgan, I didn’t know who else to ask. The bank called looking for him at my house. If he hurts Britney, please protect her. I can’t do it alone. — Mom.
The dossier was a horror show. Tyler had debts in the hundreds of thousands. Predatory loans, defaults, and a failed “tech startup” that was actually a pyramid scheme. But the final page made my blood run cold.
A loan application for $200,000.
Applicant: Britney Hayes-Morris.
Collateral: The Family Home.
He hadn’t uninvited me from New Year’s because I was “tense.” He had uninvited me because I was the only person in the family who knew how to read a balance sheet. He needed me away from Britney long enough to sign her life away. He was planning to liquidate my mother’s home to pay off his gambling debts in Atlantic City.
I grabbed my coat and the file. The “atmospheric pressure” was about to become a hurricane.
The subdivision where Britney lived was a maze of beige siding and white trim—a neighborhood of pretend perfection. I walked up the driveway, my boots crunching on the gravel. Before I could knock, the door flew open.
Tyler stood there, looking disheveled, a bottle of beer in his hand. “I told you to stay away!”
I didn’t speak. I simply held up the manila folder. The porch light caught the words Forensic Audit and Background Report. His face drained of color, turning a sickly, translucent white. He stepped back, tripping over the welcome mat.
I walked past him into the kitchen, where my mother and sister were sitting in a silence that felt like a funeral. “The vibe is about to change,”
I said, laying the file on the table.
