Chapter 6: Ledgers
The forensic accountant did not deal in church smiles. She dealt in timelines of wire transfers and beneficial ownership.
Within a week the blurry multimillion-dollar shape gained edges: Ryan’s consulting LLC fed a holding company; the holding company sat on paper beside a development entity positioned for a waterfront parcel whose zoning application was due to clear a final hurdle in the fall. Projected value, if the votes held, sat in a range that made an aluminum bat look like a cheap tool for expensive silence. Mom’s old signature—witness to a years-prior affidavit Ryan had waved as routine—appeared in a chain the opposing side of a civil dispute might subpoena. He had not come with pie to repair family. He had come to test whether a seventy-one-year-old woman could be frightened off a paper trail.
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Ruiz filed preservation letters. Accounts that could be frozen under the separation were frozen. I produced joint records without drama and withheld nothing the court would order anyway. Ryan’s attorney sent a letter about reconciliation and “mental strain on Nancy.” We answered with medical reports and the lab match on the lens. Strain had a cause. The cause had a bat.
Mom moved from hospital to a short rehab stay. I brought her reading glasses with a plain frame. She refused to apologize again for the marriage. Progress.
