PART 7

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….