Chapter 8 - The Lawyer's Office
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Monday morning arrived with brilliant, deceptive sunshine.
At 9:00 AM, Lorraine and I sat in the sleek, glass-walled conference room of my real estate attorney, Marcus Vance, in downtown Dallas.
Marcus was a sharp, meticulous man who had handled all my commercial property acquisitions for the last fifteen years. He reviewed the fraudulent quitclaim deed I had taken from Mason, his brow furrowing deeper with every paragraph.
“This is incredibly brazen, David,” Marcus said, setting the document down on the polished mahogany table. “She didn't just draft a quitclaim deed. She fabricated a corporate entity—Holloway Holdings LLC—and structured the transfer to bypass spousal consent laws. If you had signed this, the property would have been instantly leveraged for the refinance.”
“The title company flagged it because my phone number was still listed as the primary contact on the original deed,” I explained, my voice tight.
Marcus nodded, pulling up a digital registry on his laptop. He typed rapidly for a few moments, his eyes scanning the screen.
“I just pulled the incorporation documents for Holloway Holdings LLC,” Marcus murmured, leaning closer to his monitor. “It was registered three weeks ago. But Brooke isn't the only managing member listed.”
Lorraine sat up straighter. “Who else is on it?”
“A man named Julian Vance,” Marcus replied, looking up at us. “No relation to me, obviously. But the name is familiar. He operates a series of high-risk, private lending firms in the Dallas area. The kind of firms that cater to people who can't get money from traditional banks.”
“Loan sharks,” I stated coldly.
“Corporate loan sharks,” Marcus corrected. “They wear expensive suits, but the interest rates and collection methods are entirely predatory. If Brooke is incorporating an LLC with a man like Julian Vance, she doesn't just owe money. She is deeply, dangerously compromised.”
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I looked at Lorraine. Her intuition had been flawless. Brooke wasn't stealing the house to build a fitness franchise. She was stealing it to save her own life from people who did not ask politely for their money back.
“Marcus,” I said, leaning forward, resting my forearms on the table. “I want you to hire a private investigator. I want a complete teardown of Brooke’s life for the last five years. I want to know exactly what she bought, who she owes, and what kind of fire is burning under my son’s marriage.”
