If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(52)

“Sis? You okay?” Erin tapped my shoulder.

I blinked, embarrassed by the stray tear I wiped away. “Willa.”

Lyle didn’t deserve a say in her name. Not after all he’d done.

“What?”

“Willa. That’s what I want to name Muffin . . . after Dad.” My gaze turned to my mother, seeking her opinion. Her misty eyes confirmed my choice.

“I love that name.” She squeezed my hand.

I then risked a glance at Erin, oddly self-conscious because she might’ve wanted to reserve Dad’s name for her future child.

Gazing into space, Erin pushed an errant hank of maroon-tinted bangs back from her forehead. “I hope she has Dad’s smile and dimples.” She didn’t remark upon the name itself. Instead, she tested a strand of pasta. “Zizi-E will teach her how to fish, like Dad taught me. And I’ll make sure she knows all the best music.”

Zizi-E. My sister would undoubtedly continue to call herself that in a crusade to win me over or wear me down, or both. It did fit her better than Auntie Erin.

Lyle would hate it—its key selling point at the moment. “Is the pasta done?”

“Al dente.” Erin nodded.

My mother poured everyone some seltzer. While I removed the pot from the stove, the landline required for the home security system rang. Its answering machine kicked on before I finished draining the pasta.

“Hello, Amanda, it’s Stan. I got your message about more anomalies. Sorry I missed you—”

“Hi, Stan. It’s me.” I reached the phone before he hung up.

The air in the kitchen crackled with anticipation. Erin set about ladling the pasta with sauce and fixing plates while my mother stared at me.

“Oh hey, Amanda. Well, I wish I had better news, but while the deed itself is real, I can’t tie Lyle to the entity that bought that land or to that scribbled signature. The general partner of that entity is named Greg Toscano. Does that ring any bells for you?”

I shook my head, then choked out a no when I remembered he couldn’t see me.

“Well, there’s no mention of Lyle or Ebba in any of the real estate documents involved in that transaction, either.” When I didn’t reply, he asked, “You still there?”

Was I? Not really. At the moment, I felt as if I were floating outside my own body, looking down on the disaster that had become my life. I cleared my throat. “Mm-hmm.”

“I hate to pile on, but I’ve also discovered a recently formed Cayman partnership, Somniator Partners. Its general partner is another foreign entity, so I haven’t yet pinned it to Lyle, but this entity bought a used sixty-foot 1988 DeFever in Miami for close to four hundred thousand dollars right before your husband went to Abaco.”

“What’s a ‘DeFever’?”

“It’s a long-range yacht. Like I mentioned, Somniator is owned by another foreign entity—like a shell game—but the names and dates and such all fit together with the info I pulled from your home computer and other searches. My guess is that your husband washed your mom’s money through these shell companies to make it difficult to track and tie to him.”

My knees buckled, so I leaned against the counter for support. “That can’t be right. Maybe there’s another Somniator . . .” Even as the words came out, I knew they didn’t make sense. My brain couldn’t—or wouldn’t—catch up to the painful truth.

“Like I said, I’m still digging, but if I were a betting man, I’d go all in on my theory. I haven’t uncovered a single real estate transaction in Florida in Lyle’s or Ebba’s name or the names of entities tied to either of them. I also haven’t found any Maryland, Florida, or Delaware entities registered to Lyle. I just spoke with Kevin about all of this and then told him to let me talk to you while he cools down. As you know, he’s hot to involve the authorities, but that’s complicated by the fact that the promissory note to your mom doesn’t specify the use of funds.”

“Why does that matter?”

“Well, the loan itself didn’t require the funds go toward or be secured by a particular asset—the real estate. Ostensibly, he could have borrowed that money for anything according to the documents, so now you’ll have to prove fraud, which is tough. The conversations about the actual Florida deal are mostly he said, she said at this point. Absent more hard evidence and the fact Lyle hasn’t missed the first payment yet puts us in a weird sort of limbo—although the fake deed is a good start. Similarly, he can use joint assets for any reason, so that’s not a crime in and of itself, but tracing those wires—with your permission—might help us tie Lyle to these entities or their bank accounts. If I can do that, it’ll help us with fraud claims. My goal is to put together a colorable claim for wire fraud—a federal crime.”

“That letter he wrote referenced the Florida deal . . . ,” I said absently. Proof of mail fraud. In hindsight, Lyle’s deceit and manipulations seemed so obvious. I’d never been the dumb girl before. It figured my first time would be a whopper. “I’m still confused, because he might be a liar and thief, but he’s never been stupid. If all my mother’s money paid for the boat, the savings he took can only last so long. How does he plan to keep this going?”

“I suspect that’s where Ms. Nilsson comes in. Turns out she’s got family money. If he can woo her into marrying him, he’d get access to her funds, too.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry. I know this is hard to hear, but it’s possible she’s unaware of all the facts at this point.”