Rachel Kim's office was in downtown Nashville, on the twentieth floor of a glass tower with a view of the Cumberland River. She was younger than I'd expected — mid-thirties, razor-sharp, with a reputation Howard described as "takes fraud personally."
She listened to my whole story without interrupting, taking notes on a legal pad. When I finished, she set down her pen.
"Megan, I'm going to tell you the truth, and it's going to sound bad before it sounds good. Right now, on paper, you owe $310,000 on an SBA loan, $220,000 on a second mortgage against a building you may no longer own, $96,400 to the IRS, and roughly $200,000 in drained accounts and maxed credit. That's over $800,000 in exposure. Your business is functionally insolvent. If Dana's creditors come calling, they come for you too."
My throat closed up. "So I'm ruined."
"No. You're a victim of forgery and identity theft with a paper trail a mile wide, and that changes everything — but only if we move fast and in the right order." She turned the legal pad toward me. She'd written three columns: PROTECT, PROVE, PUNISH.
"Protect: today, we file a police report for identity theft — Detective Foster can take it. We send fraud affidavits to every lender and creditor. We dispute the quitclaim deed at the county recorder's office — a forged deed is void, but we have to challenge it formally or it stands. We petition the IRS for innocent spouse — well, innocent partner — relief on the payroll taxes."
"Prove: Howard's forensic accounting, the bank's fraud file, the notary's suspended commission, the insurance claim with no police report. We build the civil case for every dollar."
"Punish: that's Detective Foster and the DA. And the SBA Office of Inspector General — Agent Donna Reyes handles SBA fraud for this region, and I know her. When the OIG gets involved, federal charges enter the picture. Wire fraud. Bank fraud. That's not county jail, Megan. That's federal prison."
For the first time in weeks, I felt something like hope. "What do you need from me?"
"Two things. First, sign nothing Dana puts in front of you — ever again. Second, I need you to be patient. The instinct will be to confront her, to blow it all up. Don't. The longer she thinks she's safe, the more evidence she hands us."
Rachel stood and walked me to the door. "One question, and I need the honest answer. Is there any chance — any chance at all — that you signed some of these documents and forgot? Stress does strange things to memory."
I looked her straight in the eye. "Rachel, I was sleeping in a hospital recliner for two months. I didn't sign a single business document in the last fourteen months. Every signature with my name on it is a forgery. Every one."
She nodded. "Then we're going to get it all back. Every dollar, the building, your credit, your name. I promise you that."
I drove back to Murfreesboro that afternoon with Rachel's retainer agreement signed — she'd taken the case on contingency plus a reduced hourly rate, "because Howard vouched for you and because I hate these people" — and I stopped at the building on Broad Street. Dana's car was in the lot. Through the office window I could see her at her desk, laughing at something on her phone.
I sat in my car and watched my sister-in-law laugh, and I thought about Lily's bald head on the flamingo pillow, and the $412 in the operating account, and the looped T on forty-one forged documents.
Then my phone rang. Detective Foster. "Megan, we've got a problem. Gary Whitman — the insurance adjuster — just filed for a license renewal, and our investigator spotted him having lunch with Ray Sandoval yesterday. They're getting nervous. If they start shredding, we lose evidence. We need to move the trap up."
"What trap?"
"The kind where Dana tells us everything herself." Foster paused. "How do you feel about having lunch with your sister-in-law?"
