For several seconds after Patrice spoke, I could not form a question.
My mother's trust.
The lake property.
Dale.
The words refused to fit together.
"How could she still own it?"
"Because the property wasn't sold."
"But I remember the sale."
"You remember what you were told."
That distinction hurt.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
"Who has been paying the taxes?"
"We're checking."
"And who has been using it?"
"We don't know yet."
I closed my eyes.
My mother had been meticulous about money.
She kept receipts in envelopes.
She wrote dates on everything.
She never threw away a bank statement.
If she had retained property, she would have told me.
Unless she had a reason not to.
Or unless someone else had handled the paperwork.
Dale had helped her with paperwork after she became ill.
I remembered that suddenly.
He had driven her to the bank.
He had taken documents to her accountant.
He had helped organize the estate.
At the time, I had been grateful.
Now I wondered what else he had been handling.
Patrice told me she had requested copies of the trust records.
"We may need to establish whether Dale had authority to access anything connected to the property."
"Why would he?"
"That's what we need to determine."
I looked out the window.
The backyard was wet from overnight rain.
Everything seemed ordinary.
That was becoming the most unsettling part.
The biggest secrets in my marriage had been hidden inside ordinary days.
I went to work.
Around noon, Ashley appeared.
She stood outside the salon window until I noticed her.
When I opened the door, she looked uncomfortable.
"I wasn't sure you'd let me in."
"You can come in."
She entered.
She was not wearing makeup.
Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail.
Without the polished appearance she usually maintained, she looked younger.
And tired.
"I brought something."
She handed me an envelope.
"What is it?"
"I found it in Dale's truck."
I did not take it immediately.
"Why?"
"I thought it might matter."
I accepted it.
Inside was a photograph.
A small house beside a lake.
A red mailbox.
A detached garage.
Exactly as Ashley had described.
On the back was handwriting.
A date.
And a sentence.
I read it twice.
"This is the place," Ashley said.
"Why did you have this?"
"I didn't."
"Then where did you get it?"
"Dale gave it to me."
"When?"
"About two months ago."
"What did he say?"
"He said someday we might spend weekends there."
I looked at the photograph.
"Did he say whose property it was?"
"He said it belonged to his family."
I looked at her.
"He lied."
She nodded.
"I know."
I turned the photograph over again.
There was another line beneath the first.
A set of initials.
My mother's initials.
I felt dizzy.
Ashley reached for my arm.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine."
"I'll be fine."
She nodded.
Then she said, "There was something else."
I looked up.
"He had a key."
"What kind?"
"Old brass key."
"Did you see it?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"He kept it in the truck."
I wrote that down.
Then I asked, "Did you ever go there?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
She looked at the photograph.
"He told me he wanted to take me there after the divorce."
I folded the picture back into the envelope.
"Thank you."
She nodded.
"I know I can't fix this."
"No."
"But I want to help."
"I believe you."
She hesitated.
"Will you ever forgive me?"
The question caught me off guard.
"I don't know."
She nodded.
"That's fair."
She turned toward the door.
"Ashley."
She stopped.
"Thank you for telling me."
She looked back.
Then she left.
I watched her cross the parking lot.
For the first time, I wondered whether Ashley had been another person Dale had manipulated rather than simply the other woman in my marriage.
That did not erase what had happened.
But it complicated it.
By evening, Patrice had more records.
She came to the house with a banker who specialized in tracing business transfers.
We spread documents across the dining table.
There were transfers from the roofing company.
Payments to shell entities.
Equipment purchased and resold.
Consulting fees.
Large withdrawals.
The pattern was unmistakable.
Dale had been moving money.
But the destination of some transfers was hidden behind companies with names that meant nothing.
One of them made me stop.
"Eckert Family Holdings."
I stared at it.
"That's my last name."
Patrice nodded.
"When was this created?"
"Three years ago."
"Who owns it?"
"That's what we're checking."
My hands went cold.
"Could it be me?"
"It could."
"I never signed anything."
"I know."
The banker looked at me.
"There are several documents attached to the registration."
"With my signature?"
"Apparently."
I closed my eyes.
Again.
My name.
My signature.
Documents I had never seen.
Patrice looked at the banker.
"Can you trace the initial funding?"
He nodded.
"Some of it."
"Do it."
He turned the page.
"The first transfer came from a personal account."
"Whose?"
"Dale Eckert."
I looked at Patrice.
She didn't react.
"Then where did it go?"
"Into the holding company."
"And after that?"
The banker traced the next line.
"To a property company."
My heart started pounding.
"What property?"
He read the name.
It matched the lake property.
I stood.
"So Dale put my mother's property into a company with my name."
"That's what the records suggest."
I walked to the window.
My mother.
Her property.
My name.
Dale.
All connected.
Then I remembered something else.
My mother had once told me never to let anyone rush me through paperwork.
I had forgotten the exact conversation.
Now I remembered the kitchen table.
Her hands.
The way she had tapped a document with one finger.
"Read everything, Carol."
I had laughed.
"Mom, I trust Dale."
She had looked at me for a long time.
"I didn't say don't trust him."
She had paused.
"I said read everything."
At the time, I thought she was simply being cautious.
Now the memory felt like a warning I had failed to understand.
Patrice came to stand beside me.
"Do you remember anything else?"
I shook my head.
"Not yet."
That night, Marcus found an old envelope in one of my mother's boxes.
There was no address.
Inside was a handwritten note.
It was my mother's handwriting.
I recognized it instantly.
Carol,
If Dale ever tells you that the lake property was sold, ask to see the closing statement.
Do not sign anything connected to the property without having someone independent review it.
I stared at the note.
Marcus read it over my shoulder.
"Mom."
"I know."
"She knew."
"I don't think she knew exactly what he would do."
"Then why didn't she tell you?"
I folded the note carefully.
"Maybe she tried."
He looked at me.
"What do you mean?"
I remembered another conversation.
One year before she died, my mother had asked me whether Dale was handling all our financial paperwork.
I had said yes.
She had frowned.
I had assumed she was worried because she was getting older.
Now I wondered whether she had seen something I had not.
Patrice took the note.
"This is important."
"Why?"
"Because it establishes that your mother had concerns about the property before her death."
She looked at me.
"And it gives us another question."
"What?"
"Who told your mother the property had been sold?"
I looked at Marcus.
Neither of us spoke.
Then the phone rang.
It was a number I didn't recognize.
I answered.
"Hello?"
A man's voice said, "Mrs. Eckert?"
"Yes."
"My name is Samuel Grant. I was your mother's attorney."
I sat down.
"How did you get my number?"
"Your attorney contacted my office."
Patrice looked at me.
"What do you need?"
"I've been reviewing an old file."
"About my mother?"
"Yes."
He paused.
"There is something I should have told you years ago."
My stomach tightened.
"What?"
"Your mother never signed the sale documents for the lake property."
I looked at Patrice.
"Then who did?"
There was a long silence.
Finally, he said, "That's why I'm calling."
Click here to continue reading: PART 7: My Mother’s Attorney Finally Opened the File That Had Been Sealed for Years, and Inside Was a Document Dale Never Expected Me to See
The Woman in My Chair Knew My Husband’s Secrets Long Before She Knew Whose Wife Was Holding the Scissors
Part 6 of 12
