Chapter 4 - The Audit Begins
On Wednesday morning, I sat down at my desk at the hospital audit office.
My job required absolute detachment. When I audited a medical billing system, I didn't care who the doctor was, how prestigious the clinic claimed to be, or how nice the front-desk staff seemed. I cared about receipts, line items, and bank routing numbers.
For five years, I had deliberately avoided looking at my family's financial history through the lens of my profession. I had accepted my father's story that his construction company had failed due to "bad luck and poor economic conditions." I had accepted Tyler's claim that his marriage failed because his ex-wife was "unstable and greedy."
Sitting at my computer, I opened my personal banking portal and pulled up five years of transaction records associated with the Franklin Street property.
Then I saw something that made my blood run cold.
When I purchased the house in 2021, I had set up a joint property expense account. I deposited eight hundred dollars a month into that account to cover property taxes, homeowner's insurance, and emergency maintenance. My father had been granted joint signatory access so he could pay local contractors directly for repairs—like the lawn care service or plumber calls.
I hadn't reviewed the individual line-item withdrawals in over three years because I trusted him.
I exported the CSV files into an Excel spreadsheet and ran a standard audit filter.
In March 2022, a withdrawal of $4,500 was categorized as "Roof Inspection." But the roof hadn't been replaced until 2023, which I had paid for separately via credit card. Where had that $4,500 gone?
I cross-referenced the withdrawal check number with my bank's online image archive. The check had been written out to Van Doren Enterprises LLC—Tyler's failed contracting company.
I kept scrolling.
August 2022: $3,200 to "Midwest Auto Restorations" (Tyler's vintage boat project).
January 2023: $6,000 to "Pella Legal Services" (Tyler's divorce attorney retainer).
November 2023: $8,500 to "Central Iowa Machinery" (The down payment on Tyler's new pickup truck).
Over forty-two thousand dollars had been quietly drained from my maintenance account over four years. Every single cent had been funneled directly into Tyler's personal expenses and failed business ventures, co-signed by my father.
They hadn't just used my house. They had treated my bank account like an unmonitored line of credit.
At 1:00 P.M., my phone rang. It was Ruth Becker.
"Claire, we have a problem," Ruth said, her voice tight with stress. "I went by the house on Franklin Street to place the key lockbox on the front door. Your brother met me on the porch with a shotgun across his lap."
I pulled myself up straight in my chair. "He did what?"
"He told me if I set foot on the grass, he'd shoot me for trespassing. He claimed he has a verbal lease agreement that gives him legal tenancy rights."
"Does he have a written lease?"
"No, but in Iowa, if someone occupies a residence and claims an oral tenancy, forcing them out requires a formal judicial eviction process unless we prove illegal interference. He's trying to stall the sale, Claire."
I looked at the Excel spreadsheet glowing on my screen—the forty-two thousand dollars of stolen funds staring back at me in black and white.
"Ruth," I said, my voice dropping to a icy whisper. "Call the Marion County Sheriff. Tell them the legal owner of the property is arriving in forty-five minutes with documented evidence of grand larceny and unauthorized firearm threats."
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"Claire... are you sure you want to go that far?"
"They poured iced tea on me, Ruth," I said. "Now they're going to pay for the glass."
