Chapter 6 - PATRICIA’S LAST LIEPatricia Monroe checked into the Presidential Suite at the St. Regis because, as she informed the receptionist, she “needed privacy during a family transition.”
What she actually needed was time.
Time to move money.
Time to call old friends.
Time to convince herself that problems disappeared if handled with sufficient confidence.
By noon, she had spoken with three attorneys.
Two declined representation after hearing the basic facts.
The third requested a $100,000 retainer.
Patricia called him “an opportunist” and hung up.
Then Grant arrived.
He didn’t knock softly.
“Open the door.”
Patricia continued packing a suitcase.
“Go away.”
“Open it or hotel security can do it.”
She opened the door.
Grant walked in carrying copies of the financial records.
Melissa followed.
Patricia’s expression hardened.
“You brought her?”
Melissa shut the door.
“You told me to burn evidence.”
“I told you to destroy private family papers.”
Grant threw the documents onto the table.
“Four-point-eight million dollars.”
Patricia didn’t look down.
“What are you talking about?”
“Payments marked as reimbursements to Rebecca.”
“I handled expenses on behalf of the family.”
“Rebecca never received them.”
Patricia poured herself water.
“You don’t know that.”
“I asked her.”
Patricia’s hand paused.
Grant continued.
“She allowed me exactly one question.”
“Of course she did. She’s enjoying this.”
“Answer me.”
Patricia drank.
“Your father instructed me to manage certain transactions.”
“Dad has been dead seven years. Some payments were last year.”
Silence.
Grant stepped closer.
“You used her trust name.”
“No.”
“You used her tax identification information.”
Patricia’s face finally changed.
Melissa whispered, “Mom, that could be fraud.”
Patricia slammed the glass down.
“I did what I had to do!”
Grant stared.
“There it is.”
“You were both living like paupers compared with the people around us. Do you know what it costs to maintain our position?”
“Our position?”
“Club dues. Charity commitments. Entertaining clients. Your father’s legacy.”
“You stole millions for country-club dues?”
“I preserved the Monroe name!”
Grant laughed in disbelief.
“We don’t even own the house with the Monroe plaque!”
Patricia slapped him.
The sound cracked through the suite.
Melissa gasped.
Grant didn’t move.
Patricia’s hand trembled.
“You ungrateful child.”
Grant slowly looked at her.
Something inside him shut down.
Not anger.
Attachment.
For forty-two years Patricia had been his mother.
In that moment, she became simply a woman standing in front of him with stolen money and endless excuses.
“Did Dad know?”
She looked away.
“Did Dad know?”
“No.”
Grant closed his eyes.
“Rebecca saved him, and you stole from her.”
“I borrowed.”
“You falsified records.”
“I intended to repay it.”
“With what?”
No answer.
Melissa sat on the sofa.
“Where is the money?”
Patricia stared at her.
“What?”
“Four-point-eight million dollars doesn’t disappear.”
Patricia’s eyes moved to the window.
Grant understood.
“Where is it?”
“I made investments.”
“What investments?”
“Private placements.”
“Which ones?”
“I don’t have to explain my finances to my children.”
Grant stepped forward.
“If those payments came from my company, you absolutely do.”
Patricia grabbed her purse.
“I’m done with this conversation.”
She headed for the door.
Melissa blocked her.
“Mom.”
“Move.”
“No.”
Patricia glared.
Melissa’s voice shook, but she didn’t move.
“For once in our lives, you don’t get to leave when someone asks you a question you don’t like.”
Patricia looked at her daughter as if she were a stranger.
Then came a knock.
Three firm taps.
Patricia froze.
Grant opened the door.
Two investigators stood outside with a uniformed officer.
“Patricia Jean Monroe?”
Her face emptied.
“Yes?”
One investigator held up identification.
“We have a warrant related to financial records and electronic devices.”
Patricia stepped backward.
“No.”
Grant closed his eyes.
The officer entered.
Patricia turned toward her son.
“Do something.”
Grant didn’t move.
“I’m your mother.”
He looked at her.
“I know.”
“They’re humiliating me.”
“No, Mom.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“You did that yourself.”
For the next hour, investigators catalogued Patricia’s laptop, phones, financial files, and external drives.
They did not arrest her that afternoon.
That made Patricia almost euphoric.
“See?” she announced after they left. “It’s a fishing expedition.”
But Grant had heard one investigator speak quietly with the forensic accountant.
The evidence was deeper than the consulting payments.
There were offshore transfers.
Shell companies.
Forged authorizations.
And one name appeared repeatedly.
Sabrina Cole.
Grant’s mistress.
When he saw it, he couldn’t breathe.
He drove directly to Sabrina’s condo.
She opened the door wearing a robe.
“Grant?”
He walked past her.
“Why is your name in my mother’s financial records?”
Sabrina went pale.
“What?”
“Don’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Grant held up the copied spreadsheet.
Her eyes dropped to it.
That was enough.
“How long?”
She crossed her arms.
“You need to calm down.”
“How long have you known my mother?”
“You introduced us.”
“No.”
Grant stepped closer.
“How long have you been doing business with her?”
Sabrina’s face hardened.
“You think you can come in here interrogating me?”
“I paid for this condo.”
“And?”
“Answer me.”
She laughed.
“Your mother was right about you.”
Grant stopped.
“What did you say?”
Sabrina instantly regretted it.
But the words were out.
Grant looked around.
Designer furniture.
Artwork.
A marble console table.
He had paid for almost everything.
“How long?”
Sabrina exhaled.
“Two years.”
Grant felt sick.
Two years.
His affair with Sabrina began fourteen months earlier.
Meaning she had known Patricia long before sleeping with him.
“What business?”
Sabrina sat down.
“Your mother needed help moving money through marketing vendors.”
Grant stared.
“You created fake vendors?”
“I created legitimate consulting entities.”
“For services never performed.”
“That’s your interpretation.”
“Did my mother tell you to get close to me?”
Sabrina said nothing.
Grant stepped backward.
The room suddenly felt too small.
“Did she?”
Sabrina’s silence answered.
Grant remembered the conference where Sabrina first kissed him.
The drinks.
The compliments.
The way she seemed fascinated by every frustration he had about Rebecca.
Had those conversations been spontaneous?
Or scripted?
“Why?”
Sabrina finally spoke.
“Patricia was afraid Rebecca would discover the company withdrawals.”
Grant sat.
“So you were supposed to distract me?”
“At first.”
His laugh sounded broken.
“And then?”
Sabrina looked at him.
“You were easy.”
That hurt more than he expected.
Grant stood.
“Get out.”
She frowned.
“This is my condo.”
“No. It’s owned by Monroe Development.”
Her confidence faltered.
Grant had purchased it through a corporate subsidiary to conceal the expense from Rebecca.
Now that decision gave the company title.
“The receiver will take possession,” he said.
“You can’t do that.”
“I probably can’t.”
He opened the door.
“But the court can.”
Sabrina stared at him.
Grant left.
For the first time since the divorce began, he had no one left to blame.
Not Rebecca.
Not his mother.
Not Sabrina.
He had been arrogant enough to believe every flattering lie because the truth required him to admit he wasn’t as important as he imagined.
His phone rang.
Daniel Brooks.
Grant answered.
“Yes?”
“Rebecca has agreed to meet.”
Grant stopped walking.
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Why?”
Daniel paused.
“Because before she closes this chapter permanently, she believes you deserve to hear one thing from her directly.”
Grant looked back at Sabrina’s door.
May you like
“What thing?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
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