Chapter 4 - My Mother's Blue Notebook
"Who offered her the money?"
My father looked troubled.
"I never saw his face clearly. He was wearing a dark suit. Drove a silver Mercedes."
"Did he give his name?"
"Charles Reddick."
Every muscle in my body tightened.
Charles Reddick was Meridian Asset Recovery's executive director.
The man whose confidence I had spent fourteen months earning.
The man who had personally approved several fraudulent investment transfers while I sat across from him under the name Evan Cross.
Until that moment, I hadn't known he had ever met my parents.
Tamson noticed my expression.
"You know him."
"He's our principal target."
Dad looked horrified.
"That man came to our house?"
I nodded.
"Apparently."
He sank into a porch chair.
"Your mother told him she wouldn't sell her conscience for any amount of money."
I closed my eyes.
That sounded exactly like her.
Ruth Mercer had been a school librarian for thirty-one years.
She believed every child deserved books, every neighbor deserved kindness, and every powerful institution deserved questions.
After she retired, she spent her mornings reading on the porch and her afternoons helping elderly neighbors understand confusing bills.
I had always considered those small acts of goodness.
Now I understood how dangerous they had become.
A few minutes later, an evidence technician emerged carrying a sealed plastic sleeve.
Inside was a faded blue notebook.
Dad recognized it immediately.
"That's Ruth's."
Tamson explained that investigators had found it in a locked drawer after Dad identified its location and consented to its examination.
The notebook was filled with dates, addresses, property numbers, and handwritten observations.
My mother's familiar handwriting made my chest ache.
On one page, she had written:
No property should be taken from someone who does not understand what they are signing.
On another:
Marjorie says the fines are legal. I asked for the recorded covenants. She refused.
Farther into the notebook, I found a list of eleven addresses.
Some had been circled.
Others were crossed out.
At the bottom of the page, my mother had written three names.
Marjorie Vance.
Charles Reddick.
Brennan Stone.
Tamson leaned forward.
"Brennan Stone is the county deputy recorder."
I stared at the notebook.
Three people.
One connected to the HOA.
One connected to Meridian.
And one with access to official property records.
The entire scheme suddenly made sense.
Marjorie identified vulnerable homeowners.
Reddick arranged the fraudulent financing.
Stone helped falsify or improperly process county filings.
The homeowners were trapped between forged documents, financial pressure, and threats of legal enforcement.
My mother's notebook contained the beginning of a roadmap.
Tamson took photographs for the investigative team.
"We need to locate the other homeowners."
Dad pointed toward one of the addresses.
"Nora Phelps. Start with her."
An analyst searched public records and located a possible forwarding address.
A small motel outside the county.
Tamson called for an agent to make contact.
But before she finished speaking, my father's phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar.
He answered cautiously.
"Hello?"
A woman's trembling voice emerged.
"Hollis? It's Nora."
Dad sat upright.
"Nora? Where are you?"
"Please don't say my name too loudly."
I exchanged a glance with Tamson.
The woman began crying.
"I heard the FBI came to your house. I have something they need."
"What is it?" Dad asked.
"Proof. Real proof."
Then she whispered something that made everyone on the porch fall silent.
"They know I kept copies. There's a man outside my motel room, Hollis. He's been watching my door for twenty minutes."
A faint knock sounded through the phone.
Nora gasped.
May you like
"Oh, God. He's coming in."
The call disconnected.
