Chapter 4: The Name on the Document
I sat down.
I didn't decide to.
My legs simply stopped holding me and I found myself in the chair, the phone still in Richard's hand, the restaurant still moving around us like nothing had happened.
"That's not my signature," I said.
"No," Paul said.
"It isn't."
"Then how—"
"Someone who knew enough about you to pass the initial verification." He leaned forward slightly.
"The lender's process at the time had gaps.
This was three years ago.
The checks were less rigorous than they should have been."
"How much?" I said.
Richard set the phone down.
"Two hundred and forty thousand dollars."
I heard the number.
I understood the number.
My brain processed it the way you process something in a foreign language — the meaning arrives a half-second after the sound.
"Against our house," I said.
"Yes."
"And you've known about this for eighteen months."
The silence that followed was its own answer.
"Richard." My voice came out very quiet.
"You've known for eighteen months and you didn't tell me."
"I was trying to fix it first.
I didn't want to—"
"You didn't want to what?
Worry me?
Frighten me?" I looked at him.
"It's my name on that document.
My credit.
My house.
And you decided to handle it without telling me."
"I was protecting you."
"You were managing me." I turned to Paul.
"Who did this?"
Paul and Diane exchanged a look.
"We have a strong lead," Paul said carefully.
"But we're not certain enough yet to—"
"Who?"
Another look between them.
Diane gave the smallest nod.
Paul folded his hands on the table.
"The name that appears in the broker records," he said, "is someone you know.
A woman named Carol Simms."
I went very still.
Carol Simms had been my closest friend for eleven years.
We'd met at a neighborhood book club the year Richard and I moved into that house.
She'd been at our kitchen table more times than I could count.
She knew my mother's maiden name because I'd told her once, laughing, that it was the answer to every security question I'd ever been asked.
She'd laughed too.
"That's not possible," I said.
"Martha—" Richard started.
"Carol has been to our house.
She's met your parents.
She came to my mother's funeral." My voice cracked on the last word.
I pressed my lips together.
"She sat beside me at my mother's funeral."
Nobody spoke.
Diane reached across the table.
Not to touch me.
Just close enough that I could feel the gesture.
"I know," she said quietly.
"That's why Richard couldn't tell you.
He needed to be sure first.
He needed proof you couldn't argue with."
"And do you have it?"
Paul opened the envelope.
Inside was a single printed page — a transaction record.
At the top, a broker's name and license number.
Halfway down, a phone number listed as the point of contact for the borrower.
I recognized the number before I finished reading it.
May you like
I'd called it a hundred times.
It was Carol's.
