“The rest covered some house expenses.”
“What were you thinking?”
“He had an opportunity.”
“He had six previous opportunities.”
“This one is different.”
“Based on what?”
“Signed production interest.”
“Signed by whom?”
“He showed us documents.”
“Did you have an attorney review them?”
“No.”
“An accountant?”
“We are not children.”
“I did not say you were.”
“You sound like it.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Did you understand you were putting the house behind his company?”
“We understand what a home-equity line is.”
“Does Mom?”
“Yes.”
“Does Carter make the payments?”
“He was supposed to.”
That word.
Supposed.
“When was the last payment?”
Dad went silent.
I knew.
“Dad?”
“I need to go.”
The call ended.
Two days later, Marcus found me at the dining table surrounded by printouts.
“Do not become your own forensic investigator.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re using the face you use before doing that.”
“I’m reviewing public records.”
“Fine.”
“And the financial statements Carter gave me last year when he asked me to back the previous line.”
Marcus sat.
“That you are legally entitled to keep.”
“Yes.”
“What do they show?”
“Nothing good.”
Carter’s newest company claimed to have substantial preorders.
But deposits were tiny.
Marketing expenses were large.
Design.
Launch events.
Consultants.
Travel.
Packaging prototypes.
He had also paid a contract manufacturer a significant amount.
That was normal enough.
What was not normal was how little cash remained.
I did not need to hack anything.
I did not need private databases.
Carter had given me enough documentation himself when he wanted my signature on previous financing.
I called Nia.
Carter’s wife.
Nia was thirty, a curator at a respected Chelsea gallery, smart enough that I had often wondered how Carter managed to keep the two halves of his life separate.
We had never been close.
Not hostile.
Just distant.
“Can we meet?”
She sounded cautious.
“About Carter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I need to ask whether you know how much family money is inside his business.”
Silence.
“Tomorrow?”
We met at a café near her gallery.
Nia arrived in a camel coat and black dress.
She sat.
“What happened?”
I told her about Thanksgiving.
The $100,000 request.
My refusal.
The home-equity filing.
Her expression changed.
“Home equity?”
“My parents borrowed against their house.”
“For Carter?”
“Yes.”
She looked away.
“How much?”
“Two hundred thousand went to him, according to Dad.”
Nia’s face went still.
“He told me the company was funded by outside investors.”
“Did he name them?”
“No.”
“Have you seen agreements?”
“No.”
I did not enjoy the next question.
“Do you and Carter have joint savings?”
Her eyes returned to mine.
“Yes.”
“Please review them yourself.”
“What are you saying?”
“I am saying I do not know whether anything is wrong.”
I slid a copy of the public lien record across the table.
“But I know he told different people different stories about where the money came from.”
Nia stared at the page.
Then at me.
“He said your parents invested fifty thousand.”
“They put in at least two hundred.”
Her jaw tightened.
“What else?”
“I don’t know.”
“Come on, Sloan.”
“That is the truth.”
She stood.
“I need to go.”
“Nia.”
She looked at me.
“Do not let him turn this into you versus me.”
Her expression changed slightly.
“What does that mean?”
“If he says I’m trying to destroy him, ask for records before deciding.”
She left.
That evening, Carter called.
“You went to my wife.”
“She’s an adult.”
“You had no right.”
“She is financially tied to you.”
“You are trying to sabotage my marriage.”
“No.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Refusing to let people make decisions without information.”
He laughed bitterly.
“You always think information makes you morally superior.”
“No.”
I answered carefully.
“I think information makes consent possible.”
