PART 5

The number Patrice gave me was so large that for several seconds, I honestly thought I had heard her wrong.

“Say that again.”

“Approximately $2.8 million moved through the company last year.”

I sat completely still.

Outside my bedroom window, a garbage truck groaned down the street. Somewhere in the kitchen, the refrigerator clicked on.

Ordinary sounds.

A completely ordinary Monday morning.

Except my husband had apparently built an entire financial life behind my back.

“With my name?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“How?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

I looked down at my hands.

The same hands that had washed hair for twenty years.

The same hands that had signed school forms, mortgage papers, tax returns, insurance documents, and birthday cards.

The same hands Dale had kissed while promising me he would always protect me.

And apparently, somewhere along the way, those hands had become a signature he could imitate.

“Patrice,” I whispered, “what exactly is the company?”

She gave me the name.

Harris Construction Holdings LLC.

I nearly laughed.

“That sounds like his company.”

“It is.”

“No. His company is Harris Commercial Roofing.”

“I know.”

“Then why is there another one?”

“Because the second company owns assets.”

“What assets?”

She hesitated.

“That’s the interesting part.”

I waited.

“Three pieces of commercial property. Two storage facilities. Several pieces of heavy equipment. A warehouse. And what appears to be an interest in a marina.”

I closed my eyes.

The boat.

Of course.

The boat wasn’t just a boat.

“How much?”

“We’re still tracing everything. But the preliminary value is somewhere between four and six million dollars.”

My eyes opened.

“Patrice…”

“I know.”

“No. You don’t understand.”

“What?”

“I’ve spent the last two years believing we were broke.”

There was silence.

Then Patrice said quietly,

“I know.”

“I cleaned offices on Saturdays.”

“I know.”

“I delayed medical appointments.”

“I know.”

“I wore the same winter coat for seven years because Dale said we needed to cut expenses.”

“I know.”

My voice cracked.

“And he was sitting on millions?”

Patrice didn’t answer immediately.

Finally she said, “Carol, there is something else.”

I almost laughed.

“Of course there is.”

“The company was formed twelve years ago.”

“Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“Who owns it?”

She paused.

“You do.”

My mouth went dry.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“I believe you.”

“I never signed anything.”

“That’s what we’re going to prove.”

I stood up.

“What do I do?”

“Don’t confront him.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Don’t call him.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t warn Ashley.”

I stopped.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good. Because if Dale realizes we know about the second company, he could start moving assets.”

I walked to the bedroom window.

Across the street, an elderly man was watering his roses.

Everything looked peaceful.

But inside my house, my entire marriage was collapsing one document at a time.

“What should I do?”

“Come to my office at nine.”

“I’ll be there.”

“And Carol?”

“Yes?”

“Bring every financial document you have.”

I looked toward the hallway.

“I don’t have many.”

“Bring whatever you can find.”

“Okay.”

I hung up.

Then I stood there for another minute.

I didn’t cry.

Not yet.

Instead, I walked into Dale’s office.

I had avoided that room for years.

He always called it his “business room.”

He kept the door locked.

He told me it was because contracts were confidential.

I had never questioned him.

Not once.

Now I looked at the lock differently.

I opened the drawer where he kept spare keys.

The first drawer was empty.

The second contained pens, receipts, and old business cards.

The third was locked.

I found a key taped underneath the desk.

My heart began beating faster.

I unlocked it.

Inside were folders.

Dozens of them.

I started pulling them out.

Roofing contracts.

Equipment leases.

Tax documents.

Insurance policies.

Bank statements.

And then I found a folder with my name on it.

CAROL ANN HARRIS — SIGNATURE DOCUMENTS

I sat down.

My hands began to shake.

I opened it.

The first page was dated twelve years earlier.

The signature at the bottom was mine.

Except it wasn’t.

It was Dale’s imitation.

I turned the page.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Loan agreements.

Property transfers.

Corporate resolutions.

Power-of-attorney forms.

And then I found something that made my breath stop.

A document transferring ownership of a warehouse.

The buyer was another company.

The seller was a company I’d never heard of.

And the signature authorizing the transaction was mine.

I photographed every page.

Then I put everything exactly where I’d found it.

Except one thing.

I took the folder.

For the first time in twenty-six years, I stole something from my husband.

I didn’t feel guilty.

I felt relieved.

At Patrice’s office, she spread the documents across a conference table.

Her expression became more serious with every page.

“This is extensive.”

“How extensive?”

She looked at me.

“Potentially criminal.”

I swallowed.

“So what happens?”

“We don’t guess. We document.”

She began scanning everything.

“Carol, did Dale ever ask you to sign blank documents?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Probably once every few months.”

“Did he ever tell you what they were?”

“Usually business paperwork.”

“Did you read them?”

I shook my head.

“He’d say, ‘It’s just another insurance form.’”

Patrice nodded.

“And you trusted him.”

“I was married to him.”

She looked at me for a long moment.

“That isn’t stupidity.”

I looked down.

“Feels like it.”

“No.”

She pushed one of the documents toward me.

“This is what trust looks like when somebody abuses it.”

I stared at the page.

Then Patrice found something.

“Wait.”

She enlarged a scanned document.

“Look at this.”

“What?”

“The notary.”

I leaned closer.

The document had been notarized.

The notary’s name was printed beneath the stamp.

I knew the woman.

She worked at a bank downtown.

“She notarized this?”

“Apparently.”

“But I wasn’t there.”

Patrice nodded.

“That’s important.”

She pointed to the date.

“Twelve years ago, you were at your daughter’s graduation.”

I looked at her.

“How do you know?”

“I checked your old calendar.”

My heart stopped.

“You’ve been thorough.”

“I have to be.”

She opened another file.

“And here’s the bigger problem.”

“What?”

“The signature isn’t the only thing forged.”

She turned the screen toward me.

“The identification number is wrong.”

I stared.

“What does that mean?”

“It means whoever prepared this document didn’t just copy your signature.”

She leaned back.

“They fabricated your identity information.”

The room became very quiet.

I thought about the woman sitting in my salon chair every Thursday.

Ashley had believed Dale was hiding money from his wife.

She had no idea.

He had been hiding an entire financial empire.

And he’d used my identity to build it.

I whispered,

“Why?”

Patrice looked at me.

“That is what I want to know.”

At 11:42, my phone rang.

Dale.

I watched his name appear on the screen.

I didn’t answer.

It rang again.

Then again.

Finally, a text appeared.

We need to talk.

Another.

Please don’t do anything until I explain.

Then:

I can explain everything.

I stared at the messages.

Patrice saw my expression.

“Don’t respond.”

“I won’t.”

A fourth message appeared.

Carol, I’m asking you as your husband.

I laughed.

It was the first laugh I’d had in days.

“Your husband,” I whispered.

Patrice raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

“He always says that when he wants something.”

“What?”

“‘I’m asking you as your husband.’”

I looked at the phone.

“It used to work.”

Another message arrived.

Please come home.

I turned the phone face down.

“No.”

Patrice nodded.

“Good.”

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART…..