Chapter 2 - Don’t Leave the House Yet
“Don’t leave the house yet.”
I gripped the phone tighter.
“What?”
Rebecca repeated herself.
“Do not pack a suitcase. Do not empty an account. Do not change the locks. And whatever you do, don’t tell Julian you know.”
That was not what I had expected.
I had imagined Rebecca telling me to take Harrison and disappear.
Instead, she sounded almost frighteningly calm.
“Why?”
“Because anger makes people careless, Elena. And right now, Julian thinks you’re still the woman who believes him.”
I looked toward the backyard.
Harrison was pushing a red toy truck through the snow.
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Find out what belongs to you.”
The words stayed with me.
For eleven years, Julian had managed almost everything financial.
Not because I was incapable.
Because gradually, almost invisibly, he had convinced me that I did not need to.
He paid the mortgage.
He managed the investments.
He handled the accountants.
Whenever I asked questions, he kissed my temple and told me not to worry.
Rebecca asked me to gather tax returns, property records, insurance policies, business statements, and anything connected to my mother’s estate.
That last part confused me.
“My mother’s estate?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you inherited significant assets before your marriage.”
“I know.”
“Do you know where they are now?”
My silence answered her.
Rebecca sighed.
“Elena, we need to find out.”
That conversation had happened three weeks before Christmas.
By the morning Julian left for Aspen, Rebecca already had copies of everything I could legally access.
And what she found was worse than an affair.
At 10:17 Christmas morning, while Harrison tore wrapping paper from a wooden train set, my phone buzzed.
Rebecca.
I stepped into the kitchen.
“Merry Christmas,” I said weakly.
“I’m sorry to call today.”
Something in her voice made my stomach tighten.
“What happened?”
“Can you talk privately?”
I looked at Harrison.
He was making train noises beside the tree.
“Yes.”
Rebecca hesitated.
“We found the account.”
I stopped breathing.
Two weeks earlier, she had discovered references to an investment entity called Northstar Holdings.
Julian had never mentioned it.
At first, I assumed it belonged to his company.
It did not.
Northstar had been established six years earlier.
Three months after my mother died.
Rebecca continued.
“There were transfers from an account containing inherited funds.”
“How much?”
“Over the years? Approximately 1.8 million.”
I sat down.
The kitchen suddenly felt enormous.
“That’s impossible.”
“I wish it were.”
“My mother left me 2.1 million.”
“I know.”
I stared through the doorway at my son.
“Where did it go?”
“Northstar purchased several assets. One of them is particularly interesting.”
“What?”
“A condominium in Aspen.”
For several seconds, all I heard was Harrison laughing at something on television.
Aspen.
My fingers went cold.
“Rebecca…”
“The condo was purchased four years ago.”
“Who owns Northstar?”
“That’s where things become complicated. Julian controls it.”
My eyes closed.
Four years.
The affair I had discovered might have been weeks old.
The deception underneath it was years old.
“Isabel?”
“We don’t know.”
A notification appeared on my screen.
A photograph.
Sent by Julian.
I opened it.
He was sitting in what looked like an airport lounge.
Coffee.
Laptop.
Gray sweater.
Behind him was a window overlooking a runway.
Boarding soon. Love you.
I stared at the photograph.
Then I enlarged it.
There was something reflected in the dark glass behind him.
A woman.
Blond hair.
White coat.
And beside her, almost hidden by Julian’s shoulder, was a sign.
DENVER.
My heart stopped hurting.
That was the strangest part.
Something inside me simply became still.
I forwarded the photograph to Rebecca.
Thirty seconds later she called.
“You see it?”
“Yes.”
“Save everything.”
“I will.”
“Elena?”
“Yes?”
“There’s more.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there is.”
“The Aspen property isn’t the only thing Northstar bought.”
“What else?”
“A townhouse in Manhattan.”
I frowned.
“We already live outside Manhattan.”
“I know.”
“Then why would Julian buy another—”
“The deed lists an authorized resident.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who?”
Rebecca paused.
“Isabel Laurent.”
The name struck harder when spoken aloud.
I gripped the counter.
“So he bought his mistress a house with my inheritance?”
“We don’t know that yet.”
“What else could it be?”
“I said we don’t know yet.”
Rebecca never let emotion outrun evidence.
It was one of the reasons I trusted her.
But I no longer cared about evidence in that moment.
I cared about Harrison sitting beside a Christmas tree waiting for a father who had flown across the country to another woman.
“I’m leaving today.”
“No.”
“Rebecca—”
“Tomorrow morning.”
“Why?”
“Because I arranged somewhere safe for you to go. And because there’s one more document I need you to find.”
“What document?”
“The original trust agreement your mother signed.”
“I don’t know where it is.”
“Think.”
I did.
Then I remembered.
My mother had given me a sealed blue folder shortly before she died.
I had put it in the old cedar chest in the guest room.
Julian hated clutter.
Three years ago, he moved the chest into the basement storage room.
I went downstairs while Rebecca stayed on the phone.
The chest was still there.
But when I opened it, the blue folder was gone.
“Rebecca.”
“What?”
“It isn’t here.”
Silence.
“Did Julian know about it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Think carefully.”
And then I remembered a night years earlier.
Julian standing in the guest room.
The blue folder in his hand.
He had smiled when I entered.
Just looking for the insurance paperwork.
At the time, I believed him.
Now I felt sick.
“He knew.”
Rebecca swore softly.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“What was in that agreement?”
“I only have your mother’s attorney’s notes. But there may have been restrictions on what Julian could do with those assets.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning if he moved your inheritance without authorization, the affair may be the smallest problem he has.”
Before I could answer, the doorbell rang.
I froze.
Nobody was supposed to visit.
I walked toward the foyer.
Through the frosted glass, I saw a man standing on the porch.
Tall.
Dark overcoat.
Snow collecting on his shoulders.
“Rebecca, someone’s here.”
“Don’t open the door.”
Then the man lifted something toward the security camera.
A blue folder.
My mother’s blue folder.
I stopped breathing.
He looked directly through the glass.
And said my name.
“Elena Mercer?”
Harrison came running behind me.
“Mommy, who is it?”
May you like
The stranger spoke again.
“I think your husband has been looking for this.”
