Chapter 8 - Evelyn Sterling
At 8:30 AM on Sunday, I walked into the high-rise offices of Sterling & Croft on State Street.
Evelyn Sterling was sixty-two, wore tailored Chanel suits, and had a reputation in the Massachusetts probate courts that made opposing counsels break into cold sweats. She was also my late mother’s dearest friend.
She didn't offer me platitudes or pity. She had a hot mug of herbal tea waiting on her glass desk and three associates standing by with yellow legal pads.
"Sit, Mara," Evelyn said gently, guiding me to a leather armchair. "Drink your tea. Mark Higgins sent me the preliminary audit at midnight. How are you holding up?"
"I haven't slept," I admitted, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "Every time I close my eyes, I see June looking at that trash can. And then I see that little girl blowing out the candles."
"Good," Evelyn said with steely resolve. "Hold onto that anger. We're going to need it."
She dropped a four-inch-thick binder onto the desk with a satisfying thud.
"Here is what we know," Evelyn began. "Graham Whitcomb did not just commit adultery. He has engaged in multi-year, systematic corporate embezzlement, tax fraud, and grand larceny. He funneled over seven hundred thousand dollars from Lantern Quay into Vance Creative LLC. We also discovered that the brownstone on Rutland Square was purchased under a shell company where Graham used your forged signature as a guarantor."
My tea sloshed over the rim. "My forged signature?"
"Yes. Which means the bank holds a mortgage backed by your personal assets without your knowledge. That constitutes federal bank fraud."
"Can he go to prison?"
"If the United States Attorney takes this case? Absolutely. But our first battle is tomorrow morning in Family Court." Evelyn leaned forward, her dark eyes flashing. "We are filing for an emergency ex-parte order granting you exclusive use of the Newton residence, full temporary legal and physical custody of June and Owen, and an immediate worldwide freeze on all assets tied to Graham, Vance Creative, and Beverly Whitcomb."
"What about Beverly?"
"Oh, your dear mother-in-law was receiving monthly 'consulting stipends' of four thousand dollars from Lantern Quay funds," Evelyn smiled, a cold, predatory curve of her lips. "She was Graham’s money mule. She helped him move funds into secondary brokerage accounts. We are naming her as a co-conspirator in the civil action."
I took a deep breath. For the first time in twenty-four hours, the crushing weight on my chest lifted enough for me to breathe.
"What do I do today?" I asked.
"Today, you go home to your sister's house. You hug your daughter. You throw her the most spectacular birthday party Boston has ever seen. And you let Graham Whitcomb dig his own grave."
"He's going to try to contact me."
"He won't be able to," Evelyn said, sliding a document across the desk. "This is an emergency cease-and-desist. Any communication from Graham, Colette, or Beverly must go directly through my office. If he steps foot on your property, he gets arrested on the spot."
I signed the retainer with a steady hand.
When I walked out of the glass tower onto State Street, the November air was crisp and clean. My phone buzzed in my purse.
It was a text from an unknown number.
*Mara. This is Colette. We need to talk woman to woman. Graham told me what you did to our accounts. You are endangering an innocent child's future.*
I stared at the screen, a slow, cold smile spreading across my face.
May you like
I didn't reply. I simply forwarded the screenshot directly to Evelyn Sterling’s secure inbox, blocked the number, and drove across the bridge to Cambridge.
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