Chapter 4: The Secret Behind the Georgia Project
My father drove without turning on the radio.
The old truck rumbled along the dark highway, its headlights illuminating stretches of empty road while the city receded behind us. I sat wrapped in his charcoal coat, holding my phone in both hands and staring at the anonymous message.
If you want to know why the Georgia project was created, ask your husband what happened to the original landowners.
The words seemed to grow heavier each time I read them.
“What happened to the original landowners?”” I asked.
Dad kept his eyes on the road.
“We'll find out.””
“You sound like you already suspect something.””
“I suspect that someone wants us to know about the landowners without telling us who they are or why they're contacting you.””
“That isn't an answer.””
“No,” he agreed.
“It's a reason not to jump to conclusions.””
I leaned back against the seat.
Even now, he was teaching me to separate what I feared from what I knew.
I had spent months following money through companies that seemed to exist only on paper. I had discovered suspicious transfers, altered records, and approvals that required explanation. But I had never investigated the people whose names might appear beneath the numbers.
The original landowners.
I opened my laptop as soon as we reached Dad's house.
His home stood on a quiet road outside the city, surrounded by tall trees and a wide workshop where he restored classic automobiles. Nothing about the property suggested the scale of his investments. The furniture was old, the kitchen table had a scratch across one corner, and the porch light flickered whenever the wind grew strong.
I had always loved that house.
It was the one place where I never felt required to prove that I deserved to be there.
Dad made coffee while I logged into the secure workspace established by the independent review team. We had agreed that I would not access Prescott Group's systems without authorization, and I intended to honor that agreement.
Instead, I examined the records I had already preserved.
The Georgia development was listed as the Bellweather Project, a proposed luxury residential community on several hundred acres outside Savannah. Promotional materials described it as a model of sustainable development, with private residences, a golf course, and a commercial district.
The projected value was enormous.
So were the expenses.
The project had received repeated capital injections through three subsidiaries. Consulting payments had been made to unfamiliar entities, while land acquisition expenses appeared inconsistent with the recorded purchase agreements.
I opened the property documents.
There were forty-seven original parcels.
The public-facing development summary claimed the land had been assembled through voluntary purchases over several years.
But the records I had saved showed something else.
Several acquisition dates had been changed after the transactions were completed. Two sellers appeared to have received payments through entities that were not listed in the final closing summaries. In another case, the recorded purchase price differed substantially from the amount reported to the development's investors.
I called Marianne.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Evelyn?””
“I received an anonymous message about the Georgia project. It refers to the original landowners.””
She became quiet.
“What exactly did it say?””
I read the message aloud.
“I can't verify who sent it,” I continued.
“But I reviewed the documents I already have. There are inconsistencies in the acquisition records.””
“We've identified some of those discrepancies,” Marianne said.
“Our team has requested additional documentation through the proper channels.””
“Have you looked into the sellers?””
“We have begun. I don't want to give you an incomplete conclusion, especially when the records haven't all been authenticated.””
“Marianne, what if someone was hurt?””
“We take that possibility seriously. If you receive credible information about a crime or an immediate threat, contact the appropriate authorities. Don't confront anyone yourself.””
I glanced at Dad.
He nodded his approval.
Marianne continued, “There's another issue. Someone attempted to access a restricted review folder earlier tonight. Our security team blocked the attempt, but we haven't established who was responsible.””
My stomach tightened.
“Was anything taken?””
“Not according to the current logs.””
“Could it have come from Prescott Group?””
“We're investigating the access attempt. We won't speculate until we have evidence.””
After the call, I stared at the screen.
Someone had sent me a message about the landowners on the same night that the investigation became public.
Someone had also tried to access the review materials.
The timing might have been coincidence.
I no longer believed coincidence should be our first assumption.
Dad placed a mug beside me.
“Tell me what you know about the original sellers.””
I searched the documents for names.
Most had been filed under holding companies. Others appeared in scanned purchase agreements. A few were listed as family trusts or agricultural partnerships.
Then I found a name I recognized.
James Whitaker.
He had owned a parcel of land at the northern edge of the proposed development. According to the original deed, his family had held the property for nearly sixty years.
The final acquisition record showed that the parcel had been sold to a Prescott subsidiary.
But the payment documentation was incomplete.
I searched the public records available through the review team's authorized research process. A local newspaper archive revealed an article published three years earlier about a dispute involving several Georgia landowners and a proposed development.
The article described complaints about unexplained title transfers, disputed valuations, and pressure on families to sell.
The Prescott Group had denied wrongdoing at the time.
No criminal finding was mentioned in the article.
Still, one sentence made my hands go cold.
Several residents had alleged that they were told their properties would be subject to condemnation proceedings if they refused to negotiate.
I turned the laptop toward Dad.
He read the article carefully.
“Allegations,” he said.
“We need the underlying records.””
“I know.””
“Then we find the people who can speak for themselves. We don't decide their stories for them.””
I contacted an attorney working with the independent review team. By morning, she had arranged for a local investigator to help identify former property owners willing to discuss the transactions.
We did not know whether the anonymous message came from one of them.
We did not know whether the Prescott executives had acted unlawfully.
But we had enough reason to ask questions.
At seven the next morning, my phone rang.
It was an unfamiliar number with a Georgia area code.
“Is this Evelyn Carter?”” a woman asked.
“Yes.””
“My name is Denise Whitaker. I believe you were looking into the Bellweather Project.””
I sat straighter.
“How did you get my number?””
“Someone gave it to me. They said you were trying to understand what happened to our land.””
“I'm trying to understand the financial records. I don't want to assume anything about your family.””
“Good,” she said sharply.
“Because everyone else has already decided what happened to us.””
Her voice trembled with anger.
“My father owned land outside Savannah. We had a small house, a pecan grove, and a workshop. He was offered money to sell. He refused because he wanted to leave the property to his children.””
I listened without interrupting.
“Then the letters started,” Denise continued.
“First, they said we were obstructing a development. Then they said the county might take the property. My father couldn't afford to fight a corporation with expensive lawyers.””
“Did he sign a sale agreement?””
“Yes. But he said the final documents weren't what he'd been shown. He thought he was signing an agreement to negotiate. Later, we discovered a transfer had been recorded.””
“Do you have copies?””
“I have everything my father kept.””
“Would you be willing to speak with an independent attorney?””
She hesitated.
“Will you tell me who you are?””
I looked at Dad.
He gestured for me to answer honestly.
“My name is Evelyn Carter. I worked as a financial consultant on records connected to the project. I'm married to Prescott Randolph.””
The silence on the line was immediate.
Then Denise laughed once, bitterly.
“Of course you are.””
“I understand why that makes you suspicious.””
“You sat at their tables while they took our land.””
The accusation hurt because I had no simple answer.
“I didn't know about your family,” I said.
“When I found irregularities, I started preserving the records. I am not asking you to trust me. I'm asking whether you're willing to have your evidence reviewed independently.””
She breathed shakily.
“My father died believing nobody would ever listen.””
“I'm sorry.””
“He wasn't a rich man. He didn't have connections. He thought the law was supposed to protect people like him.””
I closed my eyes.
“Your father deserves to have his records examined.””
After another long silence, Denise agreed to speak with the attorney.
When the call ended, Dad stood beside the window, looking toward the workshop.
“Now you understand why I wanted evidence before accusations,” he said.
I nodded.
But I also understood something else.
The Prescott empire had not merely been built on polished presentations and extravagant parties. At least some of its projects might have depended on people who lacked the money or influence to challenge the decisions being made about their lives.
If the allegations were supported by evidence, the consequences would extend far beyond my marriage.
My laptop chimed.
An email had arrived from the review team.
The subject line read: *URGENT — AUTHENTICATION OF HISTORICAL APPROVALS REQUIRED.*
I opened it.
Attached was a list of documents that investigators had identified as potentially altered.
Beside one entry appeared the name of the executive who had approved the final Bellweather acquisition.
Prescott Randolph.
And beneath his name was a date.
The date was six months before our wedding.
My husband had once told me he knew nothing about the Georgia project until long after the initial land purchases.
The records suggested otherwise.
I stared at the screen as Dad came to stand beside me.
May you like
For the first time, I had a reason to question not merely what Prescott had done during our marriage, but what he had been hiding before he ever asked me to become his wife.
And I knew the next conversation would change everything.
