My BIL Bragged, “I’m Flipping The Family Beach House. Easy Profit.”…

The Audacious Announcement

My brother-in-law bragged, “I’m flipping the family beach house. Easy profit.” He didn’t know I’d quietly bought it and the contractor waiting outside was furious.

I was watching my brother-in-law stand in my father’s living room clutching a glass of champagne as if he had just concluded the transaction of the century when I knew he was going to pull it off. He was about to lie to everyone again.

“Big announcement everyone,” Jackson remarked with a forced smile growing over his face.

The room became silent. My sister Sophie clutched his arm grinning as if he had just proposed for the second time.

“I am flipping the family beach house. The permits have been issued and the renovations are almost complete. Should turn a good profit by spring.” Jackson said.

The room exploded. My father tapped him on the shoulder and my uncle John—the different John—raised his glass.

My cousins flocked around inquiring about square footage, contractor fees, and if he had used the original hardwood. I drank my wine and said nothing.

A Secret Ownership

What they didn’t know and Jackson evidently didn’t know I knew was that I had purchased that beach property five years prior.

There was no family announcement, no group text, just myself, a real estate attorney called Luke Marshall, and county records that plainly indicated my name on the deed. Jackson had never owned it; he merely lied like he usually did.

“The deck renovation was the most costly part,” Jackson persisted, gesticulating with his champagne flute.

“But I talked the contractor down. The man demanded $25,000. I convinced him to pay $20,000.” Jackson continued.

“Is it still the blue shutters or did you repaint?” My cousin Emma leaned in.

“Keeping the blue. Classic coastal charm; buyers eat that up.” Jackson stated calmly.

I nearly laughed. The shutters were green and had been green since 1987.

“He’s been working so hard on this weekends and evenings. I barely see him.” My sister pinched his arm.

“Investment requires sacrifice. Good man, Jackson. Someone needed to do something with that place.” My father replied approvingly.

The Quiet Operation

I’d been doing something with that place, renting it out seasonally via a property management business, generating a solid peaceful income while living my life three hours away in the city.

The seaside home had belonged to my grandma. My siblings refused to deal with her death; there was too much upkeep, too many memories, and it was too distant from their suburban lifestyle.

I had offered to purchase it from the estate. My siblings had been relieved.

“Take it. One less thing to worry about.” My brother Aaron had instructed.

I said I recruited Luke Marshall, paid the estate at fair market value, and handled all of the paperwork. The entire purchase took six weeks.

I didn’t make a big deal out of it since that is not how I operate. I simply did it.

The Contractor’s Revelation

Apparently Jackson sensed an opportunity in my quiet.

“When do you list it?” My uncle inquired.

“March. Spring market is killer for beach properties. I’m thinking we list at $700,000 and see what happens.” Jackson said firmly.

We assumed he had partners and had some sort of claim. My phone vibrated with an SMS from an unfamiliar phone number.

“Is this Michael Morrison the owner of 847 Cibsy Lane?” The message asked.

I entered the kitchen away from the party.

“Yes, who’s this?” I replied.

“James Carter. We need to talk about Jackson Foster.” The voice said.

Discovery of Fraud

My stomach sank.

“What about him?” I asked.

“He hired me to remodel your property claiming he owned it. I’ve been working for four weeks. He owes me $18,000 and he won’t return my calls.” The contractor said.

I gazed at the message, reading it twice and three times.

“Are you at the property now?” I asked.

“No, but I can meet you tomorrow morning.” He replied.

“I’m in the city. Can you send me photos of the work and any contracts you signed?” I asked.

Fabricated Realities

Three dots emerged, stopped, and reappeared.

“He said this was his family’s beach house that he was handling the flip personally. Are you telling me he doesn’t own it?” James asked.

“He’s never owned it. Send me everything you have.” I said.

The images started to arrive. Half of the new deck rails are installed, bathroom fixtures are torn out and sitting in cartons, and the walls are covered in fresh drywall compound.

I had not authorized the work or approved the adjustments. Then came the contract.

It had Jackson’s signature, my property address, and fake permission numbers from the county.

I knew they were fabricated because I had reviewed the county record system two months prior for my yearly property tax review. There had been no permits submitted and no improvements were approved.

Preparing for Battle

Jackson had used phony papers to engage a contractor to work on a residence he did not own. Now the contractor was four weeks into labor and supplies with no method of getting paid.

I returned to the living room where Jackson was still holding court, lying and convincing my family that he was a real estate expert.

“Mr. Carter, I’m the legal owner. I have the deed and county records to prove it. Jackson has defrauded you. I think you should contact the police.” I typed cautiously.

“Are you serious?” James asked.

“Completely. I’m sorry this happened to you but I never authorized any renovations, never hired you, and never agreed to pay for anything. This is fraud.” I said.

“Jesus. Do you have his address?” James asked.

“I have the address where I’m supposed to send the invoice someplace in Riverside County.” James said.

That was where Jackson and my sister lived, twenty minutes from here.

“Send me copies of everything—every text, every email, every photo. I’ll forward it to my attorney and we’ll figure out next steps.” I wrote.

“He said the permits were approved. He showed me paperwork.” James said.

“It was forged.” I said.

The Silent Observer

There was a prolonged pause.

“I’ve been in construction for 12 years. I’ve seen some shady stuff but this? Yeah. What do you want me to do?” James asked.

I considered that Jackson is in the next room enjoying my father’s champagne, accepting congrats on a project that did not exist.

I thought about my sister who had no idea she was married to a con artist. My family has always preferred Jackson to me since he is charming and I am quiet.

“For now document everything. I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll figure this out.” I wrote.

“Okay.” James replied.

The Charade Continues

I walked back into the living room. Jackson was discussing his remodeling timeline to my cousin Marcus, who worked in commercial real estate and should have known better than to believe him at face value.

“The bathroom is the key. Buyers will pay premium for a good bathroom. I’m going luxury fixtures, heated floors, the works.” Jackson said.

Heated floors in a beach house that would be used three months a year?

“Michael, come tell Jackson about that investment property you looked at in Portland.” My father drew my attention.

I’d mentioned it at another family meal seven months earlier. I was astonished that my father remembered.

I stepped up, stood next to Jackson, and looked him in the eyes.

“How’s the renovation going?” I inquired politely.

“Great. Contractor’s solid, works ahead of schedule.” He said without hesitation.

“That’s unusual.” I said.

“I know, right? Got lucky with this guy.” Jackson replied.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

Jackson blinked.

“Who, your contractor?” I asked.

“Oh, James. James Carter.” Jackson said.

“And he has taken responsibility?” I asked.

“Yeah, why?” Jackson asked.

“Just curious. Contractors can be tough to manage.” I grinned.

“Not this one. Professional operation.” Jackson said.

I nodded slowly.

“Good to hear.” I said.