Chapter 9 - The Private Investigator
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The investigator Marcus recommended was a quiet, unassuming man named Ellis. He looked more like a retired high school history teacher than a man who dug up secrets for a living, but his reputation for discretion and thoroughness was unmatched.
We met Ellis at a quiet diner off the interstate later that afternoon.
I handed him a manila folder containing Brooke’s basic information, the fraudulent deed, and the name Julian Vance.
Ellis didn't open the folder immediately. He rested his hand on it, his pale blue eyes observing me carefully.
“When you dig into private debt involving men like Vance,” Ellis said, his voice a low, gravelly hum, “you rarely find clean answers, Mr. Holloway. You find gambling addictions, blackmail, or illegal shell games. Are you prepared for the possibility that your son might be implicated?”
Lorraine’s hand tightened around her coffee cup.
“Mason is passive, Ellis,” I answered firmly. “He is conflict-avoidant. But he is not a criminal. Whatever Brooke is hiding, she built the walls herself. I just want to know what’s behind them.”
“Understood,” Ellis nodded, sliding the folder into his worn leather briefcase. “Give me forty-eight hours. I’ll follow the money.”
The next two days were a masterclass in agonizing patience.
I drove past the Frisco house once. The moving trucks had arrived. I sat parked down the street, watching strangers carry expensive furniture out the front doors. I saw Mason carrying boxes, his posture stooped, moving like a man walking to his own execution.
Brooke stood on the porch, holding a cup of coffee, barking orders at the movers. Even in the midst of eviction, she demanded absolute control of her environment.
I didn't interfere. I let the seventy-two-hour deadline expire. By Wednesday evening, the house was completely empty, the locks had been changed by my contractor, and the property was officially secured.
On Thursday morning, my phone vibrated on the kitchen counter.
It was Ellis.
“I have the file,” Ellis said, his tone devoid of any pleasantries. “I’m emailing you a secure link now. You were right, Mr. Holloway. There is no fitness franchise. But what she’s actually doing is significantly worse.”
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I opened my laptop, my heart beating a steady, cold rhythm. I clicked the secure link, and the digital file downloaded instantly.
I opened the first document, and the architecture of Brooke’s deception finally revealed itself in terrifying clarity.
