Chapter 2 - The Property Transfer

The following morning, Margaret dressed as if she were attending a wedding.

She wore a cream suit, pearl earrings, and the gold necklace I remembered from the backyard.

Paige spent nearly an hour styling her hair.

Gwen remained in the damp room.

My mother had not asked whether she needed breakfast.

At ten, a lawyer named Charles Benton arrived carrying a leather briefcase.

He was in his late fifties, with silver hair and the manner of a man who had spent years reassuring wealthy clients that rules were flexible.

“Gavin,” he said, shaking my hand. “Your mother tells me congratulations are in order.”

“The compensation is not final.”

“Of course. These matters require preparation.”

He opened several documents across the dining table.

My mother wanted to place the house and rental properties into a trust called the Mercer Family Security Trust.

“Mercer?” I asked.

Margaret smiled.

“It sounded distinguished.”

“It is not our name.”

Charles adjusted his glasses.

“The name is largely symbolic.”

“Who drafted this?”

“I did.”

“Who is the beneficiary?”

“Your mother, your sister, you, and any future descendants.”

“Where is Gwen?”

A pause followed.

Paige looked annoyed.

“She isn’t blood.”

“She is my wife.”

Margaret touched my hand.

“Gavin, this is about protecting family property. Marriages can change.”

“So can mothers.”

The room became silent.

I smiled as if I had made a joke.

Charles cleared his throat.

“We can add Mrs. Carter as a discretionary beneficiary.”

“Not discretionary.”

My last name was Carter.

Gwen had carried it alone while everyone else spent the money attached to it.

“She will be an equal beneficiary,” I said.

Margaret’s jaw tightened.

“The compensation officer might not like complicated ownership.”

“The officer requires full disclosure.”

I invented rules faster than Charles could challenge them.

The assets had to be listed with purchase dates.

Every funding source needed documentation.

All loans connected to my identity had to be disclosed.

Any undisclosed debt would cancel the compensation.

That last statement frightened Paige.

She glanced toward Margaret.

I noticed.

“What debt?” I asked.

“Nothing,” Paige said too quickly.

Charles placed a document before me.

“This authorizes the transfer process.”

I did not sign.

“I want copies first.”

“Your mother has already approved.”

“I’m not my mother.”

He stared at me.

I stared back.

Finally, he gathered copies.

After he left, Margaret confronted me in the kitchen.

“You embarrassed me.”

“How?”

“You treated Charles like a criminal.”

“I asked for documents.”

“You implied we had debts.”

“Do we?”

She crossed her arms.

“You send money and disappear for four years, then return acting like an investigator.”

“I returned and found my wife washing dishes outside.”

“She refused to cooperate with the household.”

“She has cancer.”

Margaret went still.

Gwen had asked me not to reveal the diagnosis until we had a treatment plan.

But anger forced the truth from me.

My mother recovered quickly.

“She says that now?”

“She had a biopsy.”

“People receive false results.”

“She sold her hair to pay for it.”

Margaret’s expression did not soften.

Instead, she looked irritated.

“That was her choice.”

“You refused three hundred dollars.”

“She was always asking for something.”

“I sent more than two thousand every month.”

“That money had responsibilities.”

“What responsibilities were more important than medical care?”

“The house. Taxes. Investments. Your future.”

“My wife is my future.”

“She may not survive.”

The sentence entered the room quietly.

I felt something inside me change.

Margaret saw it.

For the first time, she looked uncertain.

“Gavin, I only meant—”

“You meant exactly what you said.”

I walked away before rage destroyed the plan.

At the clinic, Gwen completed imaging and bloodwork.

Dr. Park explained that the cancer had spread to nearby lymph nodes but had not reached distant organs.

Treatment would be difficult.

It was not hopeless.

Gwen listened without crying.

“What happens first?” she asked.

“Chemotherapy to shrink the tumor, followed by surgery.”

“How soon?”

“Next week.”

Gwen looked at me.

“Can we afford it?”

The question humiliated me.

Not because she asked.

Because she had been conditioned to believe survival required permission from people wearing my money around their wrists.

“We will,” I said.

The clinic’s assistance coordinator helped us apply for aid.

My Canadian employer’s health plan covered part of the cost.

I used my personal savings for the rest.

That evening, I moved Gwen into a small hotel near the hospital.

I told Margaret the company required me to attend meetings in another city.

She believed me because the imaginary money occupied every thought.

Gwen stood in the hotel room, staring at the clean bed.

“There’s a bathroom inside.”

“Yes.”

“Hot water?”

“Yes.”

She turned the faucet on and watched steam rise.

For four years, I had imagined that my money gave her comfort.

A private bathroom reduced her to tears.

“I’m taking you away permanently,” I said.

She sat on the bed.

“What about the house?”

“It was never ours.”

“What about your mother?”

“She made her choice.”

“And Paige?”

“She did too.”

Gwen looked down at her hands.

“There is something else.”

“What?”

“Paige used my name.”

My stomach tightened.

“For what?”

“She brought papers to me last year. She said they were required for the house insurance.”

“Did you sign?”

“She stood over me until I did.”

“What were they?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you have copies?”

“No.”

Daniel found the answer the following day.

A credit report showed three accounts in Gwen’s name.

A personal loan of twenty-eight thousand dollars.

Two credit cards totaling nineteen thousand.

All were delinquent.

“Where did the funds go?” I asked.

“The personal loan was deposited into Northstar Family Holdings.”

Paige had not only used my income.

She had destroyed Gwen’s credit while keeping her financially trapped.

The loan application listed Gwen as Northstar’s operations manager, earning seventy-five thousand dollars per year.

“She never worked there.”

“Then someone forged employment records.”

“What about the signature?”

“It appears electronic. We need the original application.”

Daniel advised us to file identity-theft reports immediately.

But I hesitated.

“Not yet.”

“Gavin.”

“If Paige learns we know, she will destroy everything.”

“You cannot delay too long.”

“Give me forty-eight hours.”

I returned to the house carrying a bottle of champagne.

Margaret and Paige were delighted.

“The compensation officer approved the first review,” I announced.

“How much?” Paige asked.

“It could be larger than expected.”

“Larger than four hundred thousand?”

“Possibly several million.”

The room transformed.

My mother’s mouth opened.

Paige dropped her phone onto the couch.

I explained that the plant’s owners feared lawsuits after the fire. Senior foreign workers might receive a combination of compensation, hazard pay, and restricted shares.

It sounded complicated enough to be believable.

“What do they need?” Margaret whispered.

“A complete family asset declaration.”

“We can provide it.”

“Including debts, companies, loans, and anyone employed through family businesses.”

Paige’s face changed.

I pretended not to notice.

“The officer will conduct a recorded interview,” I continued. “Any false statement could disqualify me.”

“When?” Margaret asked.

“Friday.”

I had created the interview myself.

Daniel arranged for a licensed private investigator named Rosa Delgado to pose as a compliance consultant representing my employer’s insurer.

The recording would not be used to trick them into signing criminal confessions.

It would preserve their voluntary statements and guide us toward evidence.

Friday afternoon, Rosa appeared on a video call wearing a dark suit.

Margaret had decorated the living room with flowers.

Paige positioned herself where the gold gate could be seen through the window.

Rosa asked simple questions.

Who owned Northstar Family Holdings?

Paige raised her hand proudly.

What services did the company provide?

“Real-estate management and consulting.”

How many employees?

“Four.”

Names?

Paige listed herself, Margaret, me, and Gwen.

“What position does Mrs. Gwen Carter hold?”

“Operations manager.”

I watched Paige lie without hesitation.

“What is her salary?”

“Seventy-five thousand.”

“Can you provide payroll records?”

“Of course.”

Margaret nodded confidently.

Rosa continued.

“Did Mr. Gavin Carter authorize the use of his overseas income in company loan applications?”

“Yes,” Margaret answered.

“When?”

“Before he left.”

“Was the authorization written?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“With our attorney.”

My mother had just invented a document.

If one appeared later, we would know it was fabricated after the interview.

Rosa asked about the house.

Margaret claimed she had purchased it using profits from Northstar.

The rental properties were also supposedly funded by business income.

“What was the initial capital used to establish Northstar?” Rosa asked.

“My savings,” Paige said.

“How much?”

“About one hundred thousand dollars.”

The exact amount I had sent home.

Rosa ended the interview by requesting bank statements, payroll files, tax returns, and signed authorizations.

Margaret agreed to provide everything.

When the call ended, Paige opened champagne.

“To Gavin’s millions.”

I lifted my glass but did not drink.

“To complete disclosure.”

That night, someone entered Gwen’s hotel room.

She had gone to the clinic pharmacy with me.

When we returned, the door was partly open.

Nothing valuable appeared missing.

But Gwen’s medical folder had been taken.

On the desk lay a handwritten note.

STOP LYING ABOUT THIS FAMILY.

Gwen stared at the paper.

“That is Paige’s handwriting.”

I called the police.

The plan had just changed.

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