Three years into the marriage, a consulting firm Prescott’s company used hired a senior financial risk analyst under strict confidentiality to review a cluster of liabilities that had started alarming even their accountants. The analyst’s reports came in under initials and a third-party billing structure. Randolph loved the work so much he began demanding that this invisible genius handle every sensitive problem they had. What Randolph never knew was that I was the analyst.
I spent nights in a locked office under a pseudonym untangling commercial zoning violations, debt exposure, forged filings, hidden operating losses, and tax discrepancies that could have triggered investigations years earlier if their books had been handled by anyone less discreet. Their ledgers were a swamp. Prescott’s so-called visionary developments were bleeding cash into empty lots and shell entities. Adeline used company resources like a personal luxury slush fund. Randolph hid losses through offshore structures crude enough to terrify any real auditor.