Her hand rested on his shoulder. A united front.
“Don’t be pedantic, Emory.”
I flipped to the cash flow statements.
“Here you have listed rental income from the Parkside units as active revenue. Dad, Parkside is being renovated. It is empty. You cannot list projected future income as current liquid assets. That is falsifying collateral.”
I looked up at him. The silence in the room was thick enough to choke on.
My father did not blink.
“The lenders understand the nuance,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “This loan is just to bridge us for six months until the new investors come in. It is a formality. We just need a certified risk officer to sign off on the methodology.”
“You want me to sign a document stating that I have reviewed these numbers and found them accurate?” I said, my voice rising slightly. “If I sign this and the loan defaults, I am liable. This isn’t just a formatting error. This is fraud. You are inflating assets by at least 200% to secure a loan you cannot service.”
Sterling’s face hardened. He leaned forward.
“We are not asking for a lecture. We are asking for loyalty. The company is facing a liquidity crunch. If we do not get this $45 million by Friday, the ripple effect will trigger clauses in our other debts. We could lose the estate. We could lose everything.”
“So you want me to commit a felony to save the house?” I asked, incredulous.
My mother slammed her wine glass down on the sideboard. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot.
“Stop being so dramatic,” she shouted, her composure cracking. “You always do this. You always have to be the righteous one. Do you have any idea how much we have sacrificed to build this name? To give you the education that got you that little job of yours? You are ungrateful.”
I closed the folder and pushed it back toward my father.
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