My Wife Just Died Of Alzheimer’s. Two Weeks Later, My Daughter Sued Me For $3.2 Million To Pay Off Her Fiancé’s Debts. How Do I Stop This Nightmare?

He took in the garage and the truck, his face hardening. “This is witness intimidation,” He said, his detective instincts kicking in. “Someone wants you to drop the case,” He concluded.

He pulled out his phone and started taking photos. “I’m staying close, Clay. And I’m going to find out who’s behind this,” He vowed. That afternoon I found a letter in my mailbox, no stamp, hand-delivered.

The envelope was plain white with no return address. Inside was a typed note: “You’re making a mistake. People will get hurt if they don’t listen. Drop the lawsuit. This is your last friendly warning”. Curtis read it wearing gloves, treating it like evidence.

“We need to document this. Photos, reports, everything,” He said. He photographed the truck, the garage, and the letter.

Then he walked to the end of the block where the SUV had reappeared, partially hidden behind a delivery van. He managed to capture part of the license plate before it drove away. Curtis studied the photo on his phone.

“I still have contacts at Charleston PD. Let me make some calls,” He said. “Curtis, what if this gets—what if it gets worse?” I asked.

He met my eyes, his voice firm. “Then we deal with it. But don’t back down. People who make threats like this, they’re scared. That means Malcolm’s on the right track,” He told me.

That night I barely slept. Every car that passed, every sound outside, my body stayed on high alert. I kept the lights off and watched the street through a gap in the curtains.

The SUV didn’t return, but the message on my garage door remained stark and threatening in the streetlights’ glow. They wanted me afraid, and it was working.

The Architect of Ruin

At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, my phone rang. “Clay, I found it. You need to see this now,” Curtis said. I drove to his house near Hampton Park, a tidy one-story that bore the marks of a bachelor who kept everything in its place.

Curtis sat at his dining table with his laptop, two mugs of coffee already poured. He looked like he’d been up all night. “Sit down,” He said, sliding one mug toward me.

“I ran that partial plate through, let’s call them unofficial channels,” He explained. “Unofficial?” I asked. “I still have friends at Charleston PD. They owe me favors,” He answered.

He turned the laptop screen toward me. Vehicle registration information filled the display. The SUV was registered to Enterprise Rentals, a corporate account.

The payment method was a credit card ending in 4102. He scrolled down. “I traced that card. It belongs to Sinclair Capital Management,” He said.

“What’s Sinclair Capital Management?” I asked. Curtis opened a company website: sleek design, professional photos, sparse details. “Private investment firm. Small operation run by one person,” He explained.

He pointed to a headshot of a man in his mid-forties, expensive suit, and a confident smile. “Lucien Sinclair,” He identified. I studied the photo.

Something about his expression, the way he looked at the camera like he owned whatever room he was in, made my stomach turn. “Who is he?” I asked. “Your daughter’s fiancé,” Curtis revealed.

The words hit me like cold water. “Lillian’s engaged? She never told me, not even at the funeral,” I said. “They’ve been together 2 years according to social media. He proposed last year,” Curtis added.

Curtis opened more screens: public profiles and court documents. “Lucian’s in trouble, Clay. Big trouble. Look at this,” He said. He pulled up civil suits and lawsuits from investors.

“His company lost 3 million in a failed deal. He’s being sued by four different investors,” He explained. More documents appeared: bank records showing liens against his business assets and defaulted loans.

“This man is drowning financially,” Curtis stated. I processed the information slowly. “So he needs money. Not just needs—desperately,” I realized.

Curtis opened another file. “Remember the fake creditor, Charleston Medical Providers LLC? The $82,000 bill for equipment I never ordered? Look at the business registration,” He said. He turned the screen again.