“Preston,” I whispered slowly, “that is theft.”
He laughed. “Relax. Think of it as an advance on my inheritance. You have lived your life already. The money was just sitting there.”
Then he added something worse.
“And your apartment on Fifth Avenue. The one you love so much. I sold it this morning using the power of attorney you signed when you were in the hospital last year. The buyers want you out in thirty days.”
My hand trembled around the phone.
“You cannot do this to me. I am your mother.”
“Goodbye, Mom,” he replied with arrogance. “Maybe you will be too embarrassed to come now that you are poor.”
The call ended.
I stood in front of the window for several seconds while the traffic continued to move far below. Any mother might have screamed or collapsed. Instead I started laughing.
Not from madness.
From realization.
Ten years earlier I had transferred every property and every dollar into a corporate holding structure called Northbridge Holdings Incorporated. I was the sole managing director with absolute authority. Preston owned a few symbolic shares with no voting rights.
n other words my son had just sold something he did not legally own.
He had also committed bank fraud and document abuse.
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