Chapter 4 - The woman in my apron
Vanessa wasn’t difficult to identify.
Vanessa Cole.
Thirty-four.
Interior designer.
And, according to her public business page, recently hired to “renovate a private residence in Brookfield.”
The photographs showed my kitchen.
My townhouse.
She had already been designing the home Mitchell promised her.
While I still lived inside it.
Megan advised me not to contact Vanessa.
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Because people reveal more when they believe you know less.”
We spent the afternoon documenting.
Photographs of the skillet.
Copies of statements.
Property records.
Messages.
The forged-looking signature.
Patricia gave a written account of what she had witnessed at the cabin.
Then she told me something else.
“I think the blonde woman believes Mitchell owns the cabin alone.”
“Why?”
“She called it his.”
That surprised me.
Maybe Vanessa wasn’t aware of everything.
At 4:20 p.m., Mitchell tried another strategy.
Apology.
He entered the office quietly.
“Can we talk without Megan?”
“No.”
“Danielle, twenty-two—”
“Eight.”
“What?”
“We’ve been married eight years.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You know what I mean.”
I did.
He was nervous.
He sat opposite me.
“Vanessa was a mistake.”
“How long?”
He hesitated.
“Three months.”
Patricia laughed from the doorway.
“I photographed you together eleven months ago.”
Mitchell’s jaw clenched.
“Fine. Longer.”
“Two years?”
Silence.
That was enough.
“Were you renting the cabin?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the money?”
“The accounts.”
“All of it?”
“Mostly.”
“Why hide it?”
“Because every time I earn anything, you want to save it.”
I almost admired the absurdity.
Joint property income had become something he “earned.”
Then I asked:
“Did you forge my signature?”
“No.”
“Did your mother?”
Theresa shouted from the hallway:
“How dare you!”
Mitchell looked toward her.
That glance answered more than words.
Megan noticed too.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mrs. Reeves?”
“Yes.”
“This is David Harmon with North Valley Bank. We’re calling regarding tomorrow morning’s scheduled closing.”
I froze.
“What closing?”
Silence on the line.
Then:
“The refinance closing for your Brookfield property.”
Megan stood.
“When?”
“Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.”
Mitchell lunged toward my phone.
Megan stepped between us.
And suddenly I understood why he had come home that evening.
Not for my birthday.
May you like
Not to apologize.
He needed one final thing from me before morning.
