PART 2 — THE NUMBERS DIDN’T LIE
The lawyer arrived at my house two days later.
His name was Daniel Carter.
He was in his early fifties, quiet, serious, and the kind of man who never wasted words.
He placed a thick folder on my dining table.
“I’ve obtained the preliminary records,” he said.
I stared at the folder.
“Preliminary?”
He nodded.
“I wanted to verify the basic figures before making any accusations.”
I swallowed.
“And?”
Daniel opened the folder.
“The numbers are much worse than you think.”
My hands became cold.
He turned the first page toward me.
“Your farm generated approximately seventy-two thousand dollars in gross agricultural revenue last year.”
I already knew that.
The cooperative had announced it publicly.
But hearing it from a lawyer somehow made it more real.
“How much was the net profit?”
Daniel looked directly at me.
“Approximately forty-six thousand dollars.”
I stared at him.
“Forty-six thousand?”
“Yes.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because I didn't know what else to do.
“For nine years,” I whispered, “Alonzo told me there was barely enough money to cover expenses.”
Daniel nodded.
“I know.”
He turned several pages.
“And according to these records, the farm has never operated at a loss during that period.”
My heart began pounding.
“Then how much should I have received?”
Daniel calculated something on a sheet of paper.
“That depends on the exact ownership agreement. But based on the inheritance documents, you and your brother each own fifty percent of the property.”
I looked at him.
“So half the profit belongs to me?”
“Essentially, yes, subject to legitimate expenses and the terms of your management arrangement.”
I leaned back.
For nine years, I had received three hundred dollars every three months.
Twelve hundred dollars a year.
Daniel placed another document in front of me.
“There's something else.”
I looked down.
It was a bank statement.
“What's this?”
“A business account connected to the farm.”
I frowned.
“I've never seen that account.”
“I know.”
Daniel pointed to several deposits.
“Payments from grain buyers went here.”
I looked at the dates.
Then the amounts.
Thousands.
Sometimes ten thousand dollars.
Sometimes fifteen.
Sometimes more.
My throat tightened.
“Why would he need another account?”
Daniel didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he pulled out another page.
“Because the official farm account only shows part of the revenue.”
My stomach dropped.
“What do you mean?”
He pointed to a line of transactions.
“Some buyers paid the farm directly. Others paid a company called Green Valley Agricultural Services.”
I had never heard of it.
“Who owns that company?”
Daniel looked at me.
“That's what we're investigating.”
I stared at the name.
Green Valley Agricultural Services.
Something about it felt wrong.
“Could Alonzo own it?”
“He doesn't appear as the registered owner.”
“Then who does?”
Daniel closed the folder.
“I think you should sit down before I tell you.”
I was already sitting.
He took a breath.
“The company is registered under the name of a woman named Maria Alvarez.”
I blinked.
“Who is she?”
Daniel hesitated.
“She is Alonzo's wife.”
I felt as if the room had suddenly become smaller.
My brother had never told me that his wife owned an agricultural company.
In fact, I barely knew anything about her finances.
“Why would crop payments go to his wife's company?”
“That is precisely what we need to determine.”
I stood up and walked toward the window.
Outside, the fields stretched toward the horizon.
The same fields my father had worked on.
The same fields I had trusted my brother to protect.
I remembered my father standing there when I was seventeen.
He had placed a hand on my shoulder and said:
“Never let money become more important than family.”
I had spent nine years following that advice.
But apparently, my brother hadn't.
Daniel continued.
“There are also equipment purchases.”
I turned around.
“What about them?”
“Large machinery was purchased through the farm.”
“That sounds normal.”
“Except the machinery was later transferred to Green Valley Agricultural Services.”
My mouth went dry.
“How much?”
“Approximately one hundred and eighty thousand dollars in equipment.”
I stared at him.
“Transferred?”
“Yes.”
“For free?”
“Some were sold below market value. Some were listed as leased. But the records are inconsistent.”
I felt anger rising inside me.
For nine years, I had believed I was being paid a small share because the farm was struggling.
Meanwhile, my brother had apparently been moving assets out of the family business.
I looked at Daniel.
“What do we do now?”
He closed the folder.
“Nothing yet.”
“What?”
“Do not confront your brother.”
“Why?”
“Because if he knows we're investigating, he may destroy evidence.”
Those words silenced me.
Daniel continued.
“I want copies of every document. Bank statements. Tax filings. Land records. Sales contracts. Equipment records. Everything.”
I nodded slowly.
“And then?”
“Then we find out where the money went.”
I looked at the folder again.
Nine years.
Nine years of trusting my brother.
Nine years of accepting three hundred dollars every quarter.
Nine years of believing that the land wasn't producing enough.
I suddenly realized something.
The question was no longer:
“How much money did Alonzo steal?”
The question was:
“What else has he been hiding?”
And that night, for the first time in my life, I began secretly investigating my own brother.
