PART 5
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.”
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