“You look awful,” she said pleasantly.
“Thank you,” I replied, sliding into the seat.
“Show me the letter.”
I handed her the demand notice.
She read it once, then let out a brief, dry laugh.
“Apex Global Holdings,” she said. “Still pretending to be respectable. That’s Barry Seagull. Predatory lender. Fort Lauderdale. He scares young idiots into paying double.”
“Can we stall him?”
“We can do better. I can buy the note.”
She made a single phone call.
Three minutes later, she ended it.
“Done. Sixty cents on the dollar. Once the wire clears, you own James’s debt.”
We spent the next hour drafting documents: a secured guarantee agreement, James as the debtor, my parents as guarantors, their house and wages listed as collateral.
Then Morgan tapped a clause halfway down the page.
“This,” she said, “is where they bury themselves.”
The clause formally acknowledged that my parents had once redirected money intended for me toward James and waived any claim of fairness when repayment was enforced.
“In plain English,” I said, “they admit they took my inheritance and used it for him.”
“Exactly. But we still need them saying it on camera.”
