Chapter 2 - The Art of the Audit
By 3:00 AM, my eyes were burning, but my mind was sharper than a scalpel.
I had mapped out the entire financial labyrinth. It was a masterpiece of corporate fraud, executed with the arrogant carelessness of men who believed nobody smarter than them would ever look twice.
Gerald Sinclair was a shark, but Preston was a sloppy apprentice. In their rush to merge Wade Development with Sinclair Capital and push me out of the picture, they had bypassed standard compliance protocols. They had commingled personal funds with corporate development accounts to fund the Eastside Condominium project, dodging state taxes and inflating the project's valuation by nearly four million dollars.
In the state of North Carolina, bank fraud and wire fraud involving interstate commerce weren't just civil matters. They were federal felonies.
My phone sat silently beside the keyboard. Preston had tried calling four more times before giving up around 1:30 AM, likely retreating to Bri Sinclair’s penthouse downtown to lick his wounds and convince himself that I would eventually roll over, as I always had.
At 8:15 AM, my doorbell rang.
It wasn’t Preston. It was a courier holding a manila envelope.
I signed for it, closed the door, and tore it open. Inside was a certified copy of the Hawthorne Lane property deed, along with a note from Julian: *“Got your text. Courts open in two hours. Do we drop the hammer civilly, or do we start with a federal referral?”*
I walked back to my desk, picked up my phone, and called Julian directly. He answered on the second ring, his voice raspy with sleep.
“Simone? Tell me you found something good. I’ve been staring at balance sheets in my sleep.”
“Julian,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I didn’t just find something good. I found a one-way ticket to federal prison for Preston Wade and his future father-in-law.”
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line. “Talk to me.”
“They commingled nearly four million in unsecured personal and corporate funds to inflate the Eastside project’s valuation. They forged a quitclaim deed on my home yesterday morning to strip my equity. And to top it all off, they’ve been using a shell company—Meridian Holding Group—to siphon development fees away from Wade Development’s primary ledger, defrauding minor shareholders and tax authorities alike.”
A low whistle came through the receiver. “Jesus, Simone. That’s not just a messy breakup. That’s a white-collar demolition derby.”
“I want a total asset freeze filed by noon,” I said, my tone absolute. “Every corporate account, every personal account, every line of credit tied to Preston Wade and Wade Development. I want an emergency injunction on the Eastside project. And, Julian?”
“Yeah?”
“Loop in the North Carolina Banking Commission and prep a package for the FBI’s Charlotte field office. White-collar crime division.”
“Done,” Julian said, a grin practically audible in his voice. “Consider it filed before breakfast. Are you holding up okay?”
May you like
“Never better,” I replied, looking at my reflection in the dark monitor. My eyes were clear. There were no tears left. “Preston wanted to play high-stakes finance in front of one hundred and fifty witnesses. I’m just giving him the audience he deserves.”
***
