PART 2 — THE MAN THEY THOUGHT HAD NOTHING

“With what money?” I asked again.
Jordan leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, wearing that familiar smirk I’d seen at every family dinner for eight years.
“Gary, I don’t know what you want me to say. I messed up. People make mistakes. You don’t have to act like somebody died.”
I looked at him for a long moment.
“Twenty-four thousand dollars, Jordan.”
He shrugged.
“Give or take.”
“Your mother’s retirement money.”
“I said I’d pay it back.”
“And three credit cards opened using my Social Security number.”
His smirk disappeared.
Pam sat beside me, her hands trembling so badly that she couldn’t hold her glass of water.
“Jordan,” she whispered, “you told me Gary was gambling because he was depressed. You told me he was ashamed to ask for help.”
“Mom, please.”
“You said he cried when you confronted him.”
Jordan looked away.

“You told me he begged you not to tell anyone.”
“Mom, you’re making this worse.”
I reached down and picked up the manila folder.
“No,” I said quietly. “She’s finally beginning to understand how bad it already is.”
Jordan watched my hands.
“What is that?”
I placed the folder on the table but didn’t open it.
“Before we get to this, there’s something I want to know.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Now what?”
“Why did you choose me?”
Jordan frowned.
“What?”

“Why use my name? Why tell your mother I was gambling? Why make her believe her husband was secretly throwing away money?”
He stared at me.
Then he laughed.
Not a nervous laugh.
A mean one.
“Because nobody would believe you over me, Gary.”
Pam’s head snapped toward him.
“Jordan!”
“What? He asked!”
I remained silent.
Jordan leaned forward, growing bolder.
“Look, you’re almost seventy. You drive a truck that belongs in a museum. You spend your days sweeping out storage units. You don’t even understand half the technology people use now.”
He pointed toward the credit report.
“Who was going to believe you knew anything about those accounts?”
I felt something inside me settle.

For eight years, I’d wondered whether Jordan’s insults were simply the careless words of a man who’d never learned respect.
Now I had my answer.
He hadn’t underestimated me by accident.
He had counted on it.
“And your mother?” I asked.
“What about her?”
“Did you ever think about what would happen when her retirement money ran out?”
He waved his hand.
“She has you.”
Pam made a small sound.
It was the kind of sound a person makes when something breaks inside them.
I turned toward her.
“Pam, how much is left in your retirement account?”
She stared at the table.
“About forty-one thousand.”

I remembered the day she’d retired from the school district.
Thirty-two years working in administrative offices.
Thirty-two years of getting up before sunrise, packing her lunch, and making sure other people’s children had what they needed.
She’d been so proud of that retirement account.
She once told me she wanted to use part of it to take us to the Grand Canyon.
We never went.
Every time I suggested it, she said we should save the money.
Now I knew why.
I turned back to Jordan.
“Do you know what your mother wanted to do with that money?”
He shrugged.
“Retirement stuff, I guess.”
“She wanted to travel. She wanted to visit her sister in Colorado. She wanted to replace the roof before winter.”
Jordan stared at his phone.

“And you took those things from her.”
“Gary, enough with the guilt trip.”
I opened the folder.
Jordan’s eyes immediately dropped to the papers.
The first document was a copy of the credit report.
The second was a record of the fraudulent accounts.
The third was a list of payments Pam had made.
And the fourth was a letter from an attorney in Abilene.
Jordan reached for it.
I put my hand over the page.
“Not yet.”
His jaw tightened.
“What are you trying to prove?”
“That I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours doing something you never expected.”
“What’s that?”
“Protecting myself.”
I explained that I’d spoken with my attorney, reported the accounts as fraudulent, and begun the process of freezing my credit.
Jordan’s expression changed.
“You called a lawyer?”
“Yes.”
“Over this?”
“Yes.”
“Gary, you can’t just accuse somebody of fraud because you’re mad.”
“I didn’t accuse anybody of anything I couldn’t document.”
He pushed his chair backward.
“You’re making a huge mistake.”
I looked him straight in the eyes.
“That’s interesting. My attorney said almost the same thing about what you’ve done.”
Pam covered her mouth.
“Gary, are you saying Jordan could go to jail?”
“I’m saying this is bigger than a family disagreement.”
Jordan stood up.
“Unbelievable.”
He grabbed his phone.
“Mom, are you seriously going to sit there and let him threaten me?”
Pam looked up at her son.
For a moment, I saw the woman who’d spent forty-one years raising him, forgiving him, rescuing him, and making excuses for him.
Then she said something I’d never heard her say before.
“Sit down, Jordan.”
He blinked.
“What?”
“I said sit down.”
“Mom—”
“Your stepfather is talking.”
Jordan stared at her as if she’d slapped him.
Then he dropped back into the chair.
I slid the attorney’s letter toward him.
“Read it.”
He scanned the first paragraph.
Then the second.
By the third, his face had gone pale.
“What’s this about financial records?”
“My attorney wants a complete accounting of every payment your mother made and every account opened in my name.”
Jordan swallowed.
“You can’t get my private records.”
“That’s for the proper authorities and legal process to determine.”
He stared at me.
Then he said something that caught my attention.
“You don’t understand what you’re getting into.”
I leaned back.
“Then explain it.”
He said nothing.
“Jordan.”
His fingers tightened around the paper.
“Just drop it, Gary.”
“Why?”
“Because some things are better left alone.”
Pam looked between us.
“Jordan, what does that mean?”
He pushed the letter away.
“Nothing.”
But his voice had changed.
The arrogance was gone.
And in its place was something I recognized immediately.
Fear.
Not the fear of a man embarrassed about stealing money.
The fear of a man who knew there was something worse waiting to be discovered.
I reached into my shirt pocket and removed a small folded piece of paper.
It was the address from the credit report.
The apartment on Sayles Boulevard.
“Jordan, do you still live here?”
He froze.
“Why?”
“Simple question.”
“Yeah. So?”
“Who else lives there?”
“Nobody.”
“Are you sure?”
He stared at me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I unfolded the paper.
“Because when I drove by yesterday, there were two cars in the driveway.”
Pam frowned.
“Gary, you went to his apartment?”
“I wanted to see where the statements were being mailed.”
Jordan’s face tightened.
“That’s none of your business.”
“One car was yours,” I continued. “The silver Chevrolet.”
He didn’t answer.
“The other was a black SUV.”
His eyes flickered.
“And?”
“Texas plates. Newer model. Looked expensive.”
Jordan suddenly stood.
“I have to go.”
“Sit down.”
“No. I’m done with this.”
He grabbed his keys.
Pam stood too.
“Jordan, answer your stepfather.”
He looked at her.
“Mom, I love you, but you need to stay out of this.”
She recoiled.
“Stay out of what?”
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
And that was when I noticed his phone vibrating on the table.
He’d left it facedown beside his iced tea.
The screen lit up.
A name appeared.
MARCUS.
Jordan snatched it up so quickly he nearly knocked over the glass.
“I’ll call you back,” he muttered.
But before he could end the call, a man’s voice came through the speaker.
Loud enough for all three of us to hear.
“Jordan, tell me you handled the old man.”
The kitchen went completely silent.
Jordan stabbed at the screen.
Too late.
Pam slowly turned toward him.
“Who was that?”
“Nobody.”
I stood up.
“Who is Marcus?”
Jordan backed toward the door.
“Gary, don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t start digging into things you don’t understand.”
I looked at the folder.
Then at my wife.
Then back at the man who had spent eight years telling me I was nothing.
“Jordan, you’ve been stealing from your mother and using my identity. What else have you done?”
He stared at me.
And then he said six words that changed the entire evening.
“You weren’t supposed to find out.”
Pam gripped the back of her chair.
“Find out what?”
Jordan looked at her.
Then at me.
His face was almost gray.
“Nothing. Forget I said that.”
But I wasn’t about to forget.
Because there was something I hadn’t told either of them.
Earlier that afternoon, my attorney had called with information about the address on Sayles Boulevard.
The apartment wasn’t the only thing connected to my name.
There was another account.
Not a credit card.
Not a casino account.
A business account.
And according to the paperwork my attorney had obtained, someone had attempted to use my identity to guarantee a loan.
A loan for $480,000.
I hadn’t signed it.
I hadn’t applied for it.
And the application listed a business I had never heard of.
I looked Jordan in the eye.
“Tell me about West Texas Holdings.”
His keys fell from his hand.
Pam gasped.
And for the first time since I’d known him, Jordan looked genuinely terrified.
“Gary,” he whispered, “please tell me you haven’t called the bank.”
“Why?”
He took one step toward me.
“Because if Marcus finds out you know about that company, we’re all in trouble.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What kind of trouble?”
Jordan looked toward the dark kitchen window.
Then he lowered his voice.
“The kind that doesn’t end with somebody losing money.”
At that exact moment, headlights swept across our living room wall.
A black SUV had turned into our driveway.
Jordan looked through the window.
His face drained of color.
“Oh, God,” he whispered.
Pam reached for my arm.
“Gary, who’s outside?”
I watched the vehicle stop behind my old pickup.
The driver’s door opened.
A tall man in a dark jacket stepped out.
He stood beside the SUV for a moment, staring directly at our house.
Then he reached into his pocket.
My phone rang.
An unfamiliar number appeared on the screen.
I answered without taking my eyes off the window.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other end was calm.
Almost friendly.
“Mr. Gary, congratulations on selling your storage properties.”
My blood ran cold.
Nobody in my family knew about the sale.
Nobody except my attorney and the buyers.
The man outside looked straight toward the kitchen.
Then he spoke again.
“Now, we need to discuss what you’re going to do with that nineteen point eight million dollars.”
And that was the moment I realized Jordan’s stolen credit cards were only the beginning.
Someone had known about my fortune before my own wife did.
And whoever he was, he hadn’t come to congratulate me.
END OF PART 2 — TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3: THE MAN WHO KNEW ABOUT MY MILLIONS