Chapter 4 - The Digital War
Marcus Vance arrived at my front door at precisely seven-fifteen the next morning carrying a leather briefcase the size of an engine block and two large cups of black coffee from the French bakery downtown.
He was sixty-two, wore an impeccably tailored charcoal suit despite it being Sunday, and possessed the sharp, predatory eyes of a falcon that spent its weekends reading tax codes for recreation.
He stepped into the foyer, took one look at the scuffed baseboards where the caterers had wheeled their metal warming carts, and shook his head.
"Savages," Marcus muttered, handing me a coffee. "Did they damage the wainscoting?"
"Just the trim near the dining room," I said, leading him into the kitchen. "I haven't touched anything. The catering boxes are still stacked in the corner, and the open bar setup is still sitting by the pool."
Marcus sat down at the island, opened his laptop, and laid three thick legal pads side by side.
"I spent the night reviewing the paperwork," Marcus said, tapping his fountain pen against the pad. "First things first: that forged transfer deed Evan handed the officiant. Kowalski called the on-duty deputy DA last night. It's already in the hands of the financial crimes division. Evan didn't just print a fake document, Claire. He used a real notary stamp."
I frowned, taking a sip of the bitter coffee. "Whose stamp?"
"Madison’s sister. Chloe Reed."
A cold thrill ran down my spine. "Chloe is a licensed mobile notary for her father’s real estate brokerage."
"Exactly," Marcus said, a shark-like smile spreading across his thin lips. "Which means this isn't just Evan acting as a lone idiot. It’s a coordinated conspiracy to commit deed fraud involving a licensed notary public. That’s a Class C felony under Oregon law, Claire. Chloe could lose her license and spend two years in state prison. And Donald Reed’s brokerage firm can be held vicariously liable for any fraudulent documents executed under their business bond."
"They really thought I wouldn't come back," I said softly, the reality of it settling in. "They were going to file that deed on Monday morning while I was still in Denver. By the time I returned, the county would have had it recorded, and it would have taken me eighteen months and fifty thousand dollars in legal fees to unwind the title."
"That was the plan," Marcus agreed. "Evan would have had legal occupancy and paper title. He would have locked you out, forced a partition sale, and walked away with half the equity of this house—which, given the recent Portland market surge, is roughly four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. He needed that money, Claire."
"Why?" I asked. "Evan makes six figures at his tech firm."
Marcus pulled a manila folder from his briefcase and slid it across the counter.
"He *used* to make six figures. He was quietly terminated four months ago for embezzling twelve thousand dollars from his corporate expense account to pay for private hotel rooms in Sunriver. The firm didn't press charges because he promised to pay it back within ninety days. That deadline was last Friday."
I flipped open the folder. There were bank statements, termination letters, and collections notices.
Evan was broke. He had zero dollars in his checking account, nineteen thousand dollars in credit card debt, and owed forty thousand dollars to a hard-money lender in Beaverton who had already filed a lien against his leased Audi.
"He wasn't marrying Madison for love," I breathed, reading the numbers. "He was marrying her because he needed to look successful to Donald Reed, and he needed my house to survive the debt collapse."
"And Madison?" Marcus asked. "What's her angle?"
"Madison has always wanted my life," I said, looking out toward the garden. "In college, she bought the same clothes I bought. When I interned at the state treasury, she changed her major from communications to business administration. When I bought this house from the estate, she spent weeks telling everyone how 'unfair' it was that some people inherited family wealth while others had to work for it. She thought Evan was rich, and she thought she was finally winning."
Marcus’s phone chimed loudly on the counter. He picked it up, glanced at the screen, and chuckled darkly.
"Looks like our friends haven't learned to keep their mouths shut," he said, turning the screen toward me.
It was a local morning news blog: *Rose City Buzz*.
The headline was blaring in red: **"PORTLAND SOCIALITE'S WEDDING CRUSHED BY BITTER HEIRESS: REED FAMILY DEMANDS JUSTICE."**
Donald Reed had given an interview at midnight. In the article, he claimed that I had "verbally agreed" to lease the property to the young couple, that Evan had contributed hundreds of thousands of dollars in sweat equity to renovate the historic estate, and that I had maliciously ambushed sixty innocent guests with armed police officers out of spite because Evan had rejected my marriage ultimatum.
Below the article was a link to a GoFundMe campaign started by Chloe Reed: **"Help Madison and Evan Rebuild Their Stolen Dream Wedding."**
Goal: $75,000.
They had already raised eight thousand dollars from sympathetic strangers who had seen the viral TikTok clips.
"They're fundraising on your name, Claire," Marcus said, his eyes narrowing. "They're claiming you stole their deposits, trashed Madison’s wedding gown, and assaulted Evan’s mother."
"They're committing defamation per se," I said, my voice dangerously calm. "And wire fraud using an online crowdfunding platform."
"Indeed," Marcus purred. "Now, here is the question: do you want to play defense in the court of public opinion, or do you want to rip their throats out legally?"
"Both," I said. "I want the ring back, Marcus. I don't care about the money. I don't care about their humiliation. I want my grandmother's ring back on my finger by tonight, or I want Evan Mercer in handcuffs."
Marcus closed his laptop with a crisp snap.
"Get dressed, Claire. We're going to pay a visit to the Multnomah County Courthouse. And then, we're going to pay a visit to the Columbia Edgewater Country Club."
"The country club?"
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"That’s where Donald Reed hosts his Sunday morning golf breakfast with the local business elite," Marcus said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "It’s time we hand Donald his daughter’s wedding gift."
***
