Chapter 2 - The Money Nobody Could Explain
After Darren left, the house became unnaturally quiet.
For years, Malik had believed silence was peaceful.
That night he discovered silence could also expose things.
The hum of the refrigerator.
The ticking hallway clock.
His mother’s uneven breathing.
The faint crunch whenever someone stepped near the broken jewelry box.
Tasha locked the front door after the deputies drove away.
Then she checked it twice.
Malik noticed.
“You think he’ll come back?”
“He was told not to.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Tasha looked at her son.
“No,” she admitted. “I don’t know what he’ll do.”
They returned to the living room.
The birthday cake remained untouched.
Thirty-nine candles sat inside a box beside it because Malik had planned to light them after giving her the necklace.
Now the cake looked like evidence from another life.
Tasha gathered the court documents.
Malik picked up the two pieces of chain.
“You can fix gold, right?”
“I think so.”
“I kept the receipt.”
Tasha sat.
“Malik.”
“What?”
“Come here.”
He lowered himself beside her.
She touched his cheek.
“I need you to understand something. What Darren did to that necklace wasn’t your fault.”
Malik looked away.
“You knew I was going to give it to you.”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You’re terrible at hiding receipts.”
Despite everything, he almost smiled.
Then he saw the red-circled number again.
$184,620.
“What is that money?”
Tasha hesitated.
The hesitation frightened him more than any answer.
“Mom.”
She slid the document toward him.
It was a spreadsheet prepared by someone named Elena Grant, CPA, CFE.
Malik recognized none of the categories except the dates and amounts.
Payments had been made from Brooks Heritage Design LLC to companies called North Vale Consulting, LMC Renovation Services, and Cole Strategic Partners.
Malik tapped the last name.
“Cole?”
“Yes.”
“Like Darren?”
“Yes.”
Tasha folded her hands.
“My father started Brooks Heritage Design twenty-six years ago.”
Malik knew that.
Granddad Raymond had been dead seven years, but his framed photograph still stood beside the staircase. He had built custom interiors for hotels, restaurants, offices, and wealthy homeowners across Maryland, Virginia, and Washington.
“When Grandpa died,” Malik said, “you got the company.”
“Most of it. Your grandmother kept a minority interest until she retired. I own sixty-eight percent now.”
“And Darren works there.”
“Worked there.”
Malik looked up.
“You fired him?”
“Yesterday.”
That stunned him almost as much as the protective order.
“He left for work this morning.”
“He went somewhere. It wasn’t Brooks Heritage.”
Tasha explained.
Darren had joined the company three years after marrying her. Initially he handled vendors and project scheduling. He was good at it. Confident. Organized. Charming with clients.
Then he gradually convinced Tasha that she was overwhelmed.
He began approving invoices.
Then managing vendor contracts.
Then controlling financial reports before they reached her.
“You own the company,” Malik said. “How could he hide money from you?”
Tasha absorbed the question without defensiveness.
“Because I let him take over things I should have watched.”
“Why?”
Her gaze dropped.
“Because every time I questioned him, he had an answer that made me feel foolish for asking.”
Malik remembered hearing Darren say things like that.
You don’t understand cash flow.
You’re emotional.
Your father ran this company like it was 1998.
Let me handle the numbers.
“He was stealing?”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“Mom.”
“We know money went to companies that may not have provided the services they billed us for. Elena is tracing it.”
“Who’s Elena?”
“Forensic accountant.”
Malik leaned back.
“You hired a forensic accountant?”
“Six weeks ago.”
“You’ve known for six weeks?”
“I suspected.”
“And Darren didn’t know?”
“No.”
Malik looked toward the staircase.
Suddenly every ordinary detail seemed false.
The vacations Darren claimed were business rewards.
The new watch.
The golf membership.
The black Range Rover he leased after complaining Malik’s school shoes cost too much.
“How did you find out?”
“A supplier called me.”
“Why?”
“He wanted to know why we had stopped paying him.”
“Had we?”
“No.”
Tasha opened another document.
“The company records Darren showed me said we had paid Morrison Lumber eighty-two thousand dollars over four months.”
“But they didn’t get it?”
“Not all of it.”
“Where did it go?”
“That’s what Elena is finding out.”
Malik’s stomach tightened.
“Does this have something to do with the house?”
Tasha went still.
“Why would you ask that?”
“Page three.”
“The protective order and the company are separate.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
She exhaled.
“Our house was mine before I married Darren.”
Malik nodded.
His grandfather had helped Tasha buy it after she divorced Malik’s biological father when Malik was two.
“Darren always calls it his house.”
“I know.”
“Does he own any of it?”
“No.”
Malik stared.
“None?”
“No.”
“Then why does he say he does?”
“Because possession sounds like ownership if you say it often enough.”
She reached into the envelope again.
This time she removed a copy of a loan application.
At the top were the words HOME EQUITY LINE OF CREDIT.
The requested amount was $250,000.
Malik frowned.
“Did you apply for this?”
“No.”
His eyes moved to the signature line.
There was his mother’s name.
Tasha Brooks.
“But that’s your signature.”
“It looks like my signature.”
Malik understood.
“He forged it?”
“We don’t know how the application was submitted yet.”
“Did the bank give him money?”
“No. The bank’s verification department contacted me because the application information didn’t match their title records.”
“When?”
“Eight days ago.”
“And you didn’t tell me?”
“You’re sixteen.”
“I live here.”
“I know.”
“Darren grabbed you tonight.”
“I know.”
“He shoved you.”
“I know.”
“And you’re still trying to protect me from knowing things that are happening in my own house.”
That hurt her.
Malik saw it.
But he did not apologize.
Tasha looked at the broken necklace.
“You’re right.”
The words surprised him.
“I’ve confused protecting you with keeping you uninformed.”
She slid the loan application closer.
“Elena believes the company payments and this attempted loan may be connected.”
“To Darren?”
“To someone.”
Malik studied the listed phone number.
It was unfamiliar.
The email address was partially hidden.
He moved the paper beneath the lamp.
tbrooks.financial@—
His face changed.
“What?”
“Mom.”
He pointed at the recovery phone number printed beneath the account.
“I know that number.”
Tasha leaned forward.
“You do?”
“Yeah.”
“Whose is it?”
Malik looked toward the front door Darren had walked through less than an hour earlier.
“It isn’t Darren’s.”
“Then whose?”
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Malik swallowed.
“It belongs to Uncle Leon.”
