“Where does the money go?”
Beverly kept searching until she discovered that the recurring transfers had been authorized through a power of attorney that gave someone full authority over my account. When she turned the screen toward me, I saw the name of the financial agent who had supposedly been managing my account for the past three years.
It was Lauren.
THE SIGNATURE THAT WASN’T MINE
Beverly turned the monitor toward me, and there was Lauren’s name listed as the financial agent with full authority to move and manage the money in my trust. The power of attorney had supposedly been signed by me three years and one month earlier, shortly before I moved into the freezing apartment where I had struggled ever since.
I examined the signature carefully, and forty years of reviewing financial documents immediately told me something was wrong. After a ladder accident in 1987 injured my wrist, every signature I wrote had a small break between the O and the s in Oscar because my hand could no longer make that motion continuously.
The signature on the power of attorney had no break whatsoever. The letters flowed together smoothly, making it a convincing imitation to anyone who didn’t know the history of my injured wrist.
“I never signed this.”
Beverly had watched me sign documents at that branch for years, so she understood exactly what I meant. She confirmed that she had noticed the unusual gap in my genuine signature many times and agreed that the signature on the power of attorney was different.
I asked her to print every transaction since the account had been opened, provide a certified copy of the disputed power of attorney, and formally record that I had challenged its authenticity that day. Most importantly, I wanted to know where the missing $7,800 had gone every month for three years.
The money was going to a company called Meridian Care Solutions LLC, supposedly a senior-care consultancy. On paper, that matched Lauren’s story that she had arranged professional care and comfortable housing for me. But decades of auditing had taught me that respectable company names could conceal very different operations.
When Beverly checked the company records, she discovered that Meridian’s registered agent was Gregory Honce. I didn’t recognize the name, but Beverly did.
“Mr. Blake, Gregory Honce is Lauren’s brother.”
I wrote his name beneath the $8,000 figure in my notebook and underlined it twice. At that moment, I realized Lauren wasn’t simply taking a little money. Leaving exactly $200 behind every month was deliberate because it kept the account active while almost all of Jared’s monthly support disappeared into her brother’s company.
