He was looking at the white flashes of the cameras, then at the agents placing blue plastic evidence bins on the conference table.

“Mother,” Harrison said, his voice cracking.

“Tell me they’re wrong.”

“Tell me we still have the lake house.”

“The lake house was put up as collateral for the bridge loan in January, Harrison,” I said.

He whipped his head toward me.

“You don’t know that,” he said.

“I do,” I said.

“Because my company bought the debt from the lender last week.”

“I own the mortgage on the lake house now, Harrison.”

“And I am foreclosing.”

Harrison stared at me as if I had spoken in a foreign language.

The man who had spent three years telling me I was nothing without his family’s name was now standing in a room that was being dismantled by the federal government.

“You did this,” he whispered.

“You destroyed us.”

“You did this to yourselves when you stole my life’s work to fund a lifestyle you couldn’t afford,” I said.

“I just gave the authorities the keys to the lockbox.”

Patricia finally broke her silence.