Saturday morning came quietly.
I opened the salon at eight thirty, brewed coffee, and stood behind the front desk while sunlight moved across the floor. For a few minutes, I allowed myself to believe that nothing had changed. Then I looked at the empty chair where Ashley usually sat, and the illusion disappeared.
My first client arrived at nine.
She was one of my regulars, a woman named Linda who had been coming to me for almost fifteen years. She settled beneath the cape, glanced at me through the mirror, and frowned.
"You look tired."
"I didn't sleep much."
"Trouble at home?"
I smiled.
"Something like that."
Linda knew better than to push. That was one reason I liked her.
While I worked, I noticed how much easier it was to concentrate when I wasn't pretending everything was normal. My hands moved automatically. Section, comb, cut, check the line, move on.
At ten thirty, my phone buzzed.
It was Patrice.
"Can you meet me at eleven?"
"Where?"
"At my office."
I looked toward the waiting area.
"I have two more clients."
"Bring the appointment book if you still have it."
"It's with you."
"Right. Bring yourself."
I almost laughed.
"I'll be there."
When I arrived at Patrice's office, she had a stack of papers waiting on the conference table.
She did not waste time.
"We received the first records this morning."
"Already?"
"Dale's attorney sent over a preliminary financial packet."
I sat down.
"What's in it?"
"Not enough."
That answer told me more than a long explanation could have.
She pushed several pages toward me.
There were company accounts I recognized and others I did not. Equipment loans. Credit lines. Property references. Transfers.
I looked at one page.
"That's the condo."
"Yes."
"It isn't listed under Dale."
"No."
I looked closer.
The name belonged to an LLC.
"Whose company is that?"
"That's what we're going to determine."
My stomach tightened.
Patrice pointed to another document.
"This account received three transfers from the roofing company over fourteen months."
"How much?"
She told me.
I stared at the number.
It was more than I had ever seen in our personal checking account.
"Why would he tell me the company was struggling?"
"Because the company and the money moving out of it are not necessarily the same thing."
She paused.
"And there is something else."
She handed me a page.
At first, I did not understand what I was looking at.
Then I saw my name.
My full legal name.
Underneath it was a signature that looked like mine.
But it wasn't.
I leaned closer.
"No."
Patrice nodded.
"This document was filed eighteen months ago."
"What is it?"
"A guarantor agreement."
I read the first paragraph.
My throat tightened.
The document appeared to make me personally responsible for a substantial business obligation.
"I never signed this."
"I know."
"That's not my signature."
"I know."
I looked at her.
"How do you know?"
"Because you signed the document in front of me yesterday."
She had me sign a blank sheet earlier for comparison.
I looked again.
The difference was subtle.
Someone had copied my signature carefully.
Not perfectly.
Carefully.
"Who witnessed this?"
Patrice pointed to the bottom.
A name.
Then another.
One of them was a man I recognized.
Dale's former office manager.
The other name meant nothing to me.
"Was this filed with the county?"
"Yes."
"Can it be undone?"
"Potentially."
She said the word carefully.
"But before we challenge it, I want to know where the money went."
I stared at the document.
That was the question underneath everything.
Where did it go?
Patrice gathered the papers.
"We're requesting the underlying records."
I nodded.
Then I remembered something.
"The folder."
"What about it?"
"Dale brought it Friday."
"Did you keep it?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"I didn't open it after he left."
"Don't."
I frowned.
"Why?"
"Because I want a record of what he brought into your possession."
She looked at me.
"Don't give him anything. Don't alter anything. Keep it exactly where it is."
"I can do that."
Patrice leaned back.
"There is another issue."
I waited.
"If Dale used your identity or forged your signature on financial documents, we may need to treat this as more than a divorce dispute."
The room seemed suddenly smaller.
"You're saying criminal?"
"I'm saying we don't decide that yet."
She folded her hands.
"We establish facts first."
That sentence stayed with me.
Facts first.
Not revenge.
Not anger.
Not assumptions.
Facts.
When I returned to the salon, I went directly to the cabinet where I had placed Dale's folder.
I did not touch it.
I simply looked at it.
It was ordinary.
Brown paper.
Two metal fasteners.
His handwriting on the front.
My name.
I wondered how many times I had trusted ordinary-looking things.
That afternoon, Ashley called.
I stared at the screen for several seconds before answering.
"Hello?"
"Miss C?"
Her voice was small.
"It's Carol."
"I know."
She took a breath.
"I've been trying to call you."
"I saw."
"I didn't know whether you wanted to hear from me."
"I didn't know either."
"I want to apologize."
"You already did."
"I know."
Silence.
Then she said, "I left him."
I closed my eyes.
"You don't owe me an explanation."
"I know. But I want you to understand."
"Okay."
"He told me he was going to divorce you."
"I know."
"He said the business was yours too."
I frowned.
"What?"
"He said everything was complicated because you were still legally connected to the company."
I looked toward the folder.
"What else did he say?"
"He said he needed time to move some things."
"What things?"
"I don't know."
She hesitated.
"Except he once told me he had a backup plan."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"What kind of backup plan?"
"He wouldn't tell me."
"Did he mention another account?"
"No."
"Another property?"
She hesitated.
"There was a house."
My pulse quickened.
"What house?"
"I don't know the address."
"Where?"
"Near the lake."
I stood.
"Which lake?"
"I don't know."
"Ashley."
"I'm sorry."
"Think."
She was silent for several seconds.
"Georgia."
I waited.
"He said it was outside Macon."
I wrote it down.
"Anything else?"
"He called it the retreat."
The word landed heavily.
"Did you ever go there?"
"No."
"Did you see pictures?"
"Once."
"What did it look like?"
She described a small house, a detached garage, and a red mailbox.
I wrote everything down.
Then she said something else.
"There was a name."
"What name?"
"I think it was your mother's."
My pen stopped.
"My mother?"
"That's what I remember."
My mother had died six years earlier.
She had owned a small parcel of land near Lake Tobesofkee, but she had sold it before she became ill.
Or at least, that was what I had been told.
I sat down.
"Ashley, did Dale say my mother's name?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I don't know."
I thanked her and ended the call.
Then I called Patrice.
She answered immediately.
"What happened?"
I told her.
There was a pause.
"Don't investigate it yourself."
"I wasn't going to."
"Good."
"I need you to check something."
"What?"
"My mother owned property near Lake Tobesofkee."
"Do you have the old records?"
"I think they're in a box upstairs."
"Don't open anything yet."
"Why?"
"Because if there is a connection, I want the chain of documents intact."
I understood.
That night, Marcus helped me bring the boxes down from the attic.
We did not open them.
We simply placed them in the living room.
He looked at the stack.
"How much trouble are we in?"
"I don't know."
He looked at me.
"Do you think Dad planned this for a long time?"
I stared at the boxes.
"I think he planned more than I knew."
Marcus sat beside me.
"Then we're going to find out."
I nodded.
The next morning, Patrice called.
"I found the property."
My heart started pounding.
"What property?"
"The lake house."
I stood up.
"Whose name is it in?"
She paused.
"That's the problem."
I waited.
"It's connected to a trust."
"What trust?"
"Your mother's."
I could not speak.
"Carol Ann," Patrice said quietly, "your mother didn't sell that property."
Click here to continue reading: PART 6: The Property My Mother Was Supposed to Have Sold Was Still Connected to My Family, and Dale Had Been Using It Without Telling Me
The Woman in My Chair Knew My Husband’s Secrets Long Before She Knew Whose Wife Was Holding the Scissors
Part 5 of 12
