Because he’d spent years cushioned by my father’s money, he’d developed the carelessness of a man who believed consequences were for other people. He used joint accounts to pay for hotel suites and gifts. He charged dinners with Becca to a household card labeled entertainment because apparently if you write a lie into QuickBooks it becomes elegant. He had also, more seriously, used my family name in business presentations to imply backing he did not actually control.
Priya slid a binder across the conference table one Tuesday morning and said, “The problem with mediocre liars is they always think they’re the smartest person in the room.”I liked her immediately.
The office smelled like toner and lemon polish. Outside the windows, downtown shimmered in heat. Inside, the conference room was cold enough to preserve a body.
“There’s one thing you should see,” Priya said.
She opened to a flagged page. It was an email chain between Grant and a private banker. The wording danced around specifics, but the meaning was clear enough: he had been exploring a line of credit secured against expected future liquidity tied to “forthcoming family asset access.”
I read it twice.