Chapter 3 - LAUREN DIDN’T KNOW ABOUT THE FORGERY
Lauren Pierce called me that afternoon.
I almost rejected the call.
Simone said:
“Answer with me listening.”
So I did.
“Maya.”
Lauren sounded like she had been crying.
“You found the messages.”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.”
A pause.
“No?”
“You don't get to start with that.”
She accepted it.
“Okay.”
“Did you know Trevor planned to forge my signature?”
Silence.
Then:
“What?”
I believed her reaction before I wanted to.
“The equity release.”
“What equity release?”
Interesting.
I described it.
Lauren began swearing.
“Trevor told me you had agreed to refinance because you were restructuring personal assets.”
“No.”
“Oh, my God.”
“You thought I agreed to finance your condo?”
“No.”
She sounded horrified.
“I thought the equity money was replacing a short-term founder loan.”
“Whose founder loan?”
“Trevor’s.”
There was the central deception.
Trevor had apparently told different stories to everyone.
To me:
He had no money because startup liquidity was delayed.
To Eleanor:
NorthStar cash was effectively Trevor’s.
To Lauren:
Trevor personally loaned the company $200,000 and was temporarily moving it.
To investors:
No transfer disclosed at all.
Lauren said:
“The Miami money was supposed to come from his personal assets after refinancing.”
“He doesn't have personal assets.”
“I know that now.”
“Did you sleep with my husband?”
Silence.
Then:
“Yes.”
At least she did not insult me with a denial.
“How long?”
“Eleven months.”
My stomach tightened.
I sat down.
Cole was upstairs.
The house suddenly felt too large.
“Why?”
Stupid question.
Human question.
Lauren answered anyway.
“Because I loved him.”
I closed my eyes.
“He said your marriage was over.”
“It wasn't.”
“He said you lived separately inside the house.”
“We slept in the same bed.”
Lauren began crying.
“That isn't what he told me.”
“Did you ever come here?”
“No.”
“Did you ever ask me?”
“No.”
Good.
Accountability.
She continued:
“He said you stayed together because of finances and appearances.”
I almost laughed.
Finances.
Mine, apparently.
“Did he tell you I paid for the house?”
“Eventually.”
“What did you think?”
“That you had a separation agreement.”
“There isn't one.”
“I know.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
There it was again.
People believing convenient stories because verification might destroy what they wanted.
I understood more than I wanted to.
“Why Miami?”
Lauren exhaled.
“I accepted a role with a firm there.”
“You were leaving NorthStar?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Next month.”
“And Trevor?”
“He said he was coming with me.”
So the plan was clear.
Drain NorthStar.
Use my home to refill the hole.
Buy Miami.
Leave.
Lauren then said:
“I need to tell you something else.”
Of course.
“The two hundred thousand wasn't the first offshore transfer.”
My body went cold.
“How many?”
“At least four.”
Simone leaned forward.
Amounts:
$85,000.
$120,000.
$65,000.
$200,000.
Total:
$470,000.
All sent to Blue Heron over fourteen months.
“What is Blue Heron?”
Lauren hesitated.
“I thought it was a legitimate software sourcing consultant.”
“Thought?”
“Trevor controlled the relationship.”
Corporate records in Cayman were opaque.
But Lauren had payment schedules.
Invoices.
Services described vaguely:
Market-entry research.
Strategic IP licensing.
Offshore engineering.
Yet NorthStar had no Cayman operations.
Lauren had questioned it.
Trevor told her investors preferred international structures.
She accepted the answer longer than she should have.
Then one month earlier, she discovered Blue Heron had the same mailing service as a trust belonging to Trevor.
She confronted him.
He promised to clean everything up before the next funding round.
The $200,000 transfer was supposed to be the last movement before money came back.
Instead, he used it for Miami.
“I was leaving him,” Lauren whispered.
I frowned.
“What?”
“I told him yesterday.”
The night before our dinner.
“Why?”
“Because I realized he had lied about too much.”
Then why the message:
Babe, did she sign?
Lauren explained.
Trevor told her the equity line was legitimate and necessary to repay NorthStar immediately.
She wanted the company whole before resigning.
That did not excuse the affair.
It changed the financial picture.
“Why did you call him babe?”
She went silent.
Fair point.
“Our relationship wasn't completely over yet.”
Messy.
Real.
Simone asked through me:
“Will you speak to NorthStar’s board?”
“Yes.”
“Provide records?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Lauren’s answer surprised me.
“Because I signed some of those approvals.”
There it was.
She was protecting herself.
Also telling the truth.
Both could be true.
By evening, NorthStar’s board placed Trevor on administrative leave.
He was ordered to preserve devices and accounts.
Independent counsel began reviewing Blue Heron.
The funding round paused.
Trevor sent me twenty-three messages.
I did not respond.
One:
YOU DESTROYED MY COMPANY.
Another:
WE COULD HAVE FIXED THIS PRIVATELY.
My favorite:
YOU’RE ACTING EMOTIONALLY.
I sent that one to Simone.
She replied:
Classic.
Then Eleanor called.
“Your husband lied to me.”
I almost dropped the phone.
“My husband?”
“He told me the loan was agreed.”
“You forged my signature.”
“He said you signed electronically!”
“You notarized it.”
“He gave me the page.”
“Your commission was expired.”
Silence.
“I didn't know.”
“Eleanor, your name is literally on the expiration notice.”
She started crying.
Not elegantly.
Angrily.
“I trusted my son.”
“So did I.”
That silenced both of us.
For one strange moment, we had something in common.
Then she ruined it.
“If you hadn't spoiled him financially—”
I ended the call.
Growth.
The next morning, NorthStar’s forensic accountants found Blue Heron’s beneficiary.
Not Trevor.
Not directly.
A trust.
THE ARDEN FAMILY TRUST.
Beneficiary:
Eleanor Reynolds.
I stared at the page.
My mother-in-law had spent twelve hours insisting she knew nothing.
Yet the offshore account ultimately pointed to her.
And now I had no idea whether she was another victim of Trevor…
May you like
or his partner.
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