PART 8
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.
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