People who had ignored me for years suddenly remembered I existed. Aunt Denise called crying. My cousin Erin, who once borrowed two hundred dollars and never repaid it, sent a six-paragraph text about how proud she was of my strength. The pastor’s wife emailed to say she was “holding everyone in prayer,” which seemed an offensively equal-opportunity approach to fraud. I ignored them all.
Three months later, Brett took a plea deal.
Margaret explained it over a late-night call when the London sky was already black and I was still at the office reviewing adverse event reports.
“Bank fraud and forgery,” she said. “The lender had stronger documentation than expected. Your screenshots and his communications were useful. He accepted a reduced sentence in exchange for cooperation.”
“Cooperation against who?”
A pause. “No broader charges landed on your parents. Not enough direct financial action attributable to them beyond conspiracy conversations. Distasteful is not always criminal. But Brett named everyone in his statement.”
I leaned back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.
“How long?”
“Eighteen months federal, likely less with behavior.”