Chương 6
“What does that mean?”
“It means we do not panic.”
I almost laughed.
“Rachel, someone may have used my identity.”
“I know.”
Her voice remained calm.
“That is exactly why we don’t panic.”
I sat back.
She continued.
“Send me every document you have related to your business ownership, your property, and your company structure.”
“Why?”
“Because before we accuse someone, we need to know what actually happened.”
The sentence reminded me of Deputy Miller.
Facts first.
Feelings second.
I hated that both of them were right.
After I sent the files, I walked through the workshop.
Everyone had left for the day.
The quiet felt different at night.
During the day, the building belonged to everyone.
The craftsmen.
The customers.
The deliveries.
At night, it belonged only to me.
I ran my fingers across an unfinished cabinet.
The wood was smooth but unfinished.
Still becoming something.
I wondered if that was what I had been doing all these years.
Becoming someone.
Not proving something.
Becoming.
My phone rang.
This time, it was Grant.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello.”
“Paige.”
His voice was careful.
Too careful.
“I heard you talked to Mallory.”
“Yes.”
A breath.
“I need to explain.”
“Okay.”
He seemed surprised by my calmness.
“I know this looks bad.”
“That depends on what happened.”
“Exactly.”
There was a nervous laugh.
A bad one.
The kind people use when they want you to soften before they tell you something.
“I made some mistakes.”
“What kind?”
“I invested too much.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Silence.
I waited.
Finally, he said, “I used your company name as a reference.”
“A reference.”
“Yes.”
“Without asking me?”
“It wasn’t like that.”
There it was.
The phrase people used when they knew it was exactly like that.
“What was it like?”
“I mentioned that my sister-in-law owned a successful restoration company.”
I closed my eyes.
“Sister-in-law?”
“Yes.”
“And investors accepted that?”
“They wanted proof.”
“What proof?”
He did not answer.
My hand tightened around the phone.
“Grant.”
“They asked for documentation showing your experience.”
My heart began beating harder.
“What documentation?”
Another silence.
Then he said something I had not expected.
“Your old business profile.”
I froze.
“My old business profile?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t have an old business profile.”
“You do.”
“No.”
My voice became colder.
“I don’t.”
Grant hesitated.
“Paige, it was online.”
“What was online?”
“I don’t know.”
The anger that rose inside me was immediate.
Not because he had made a mistake.
Because everyone kept using the same excuse.
I don’t know.
I didn’t mean to.
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
“I’m going to ask you one more time.”
My voice was quiet.
“What exactly did you give them?”
He breathed in.
Then said the words that changed everything.
“A copy of the article about your company.”
I went still.
“What article?”
“The one from three years ago.”
There had only been one article.
A local business feature.
The first time my company received public attention.
The article I had never shared with my family.
The article that included my full name.
My company history.
And one photograph.
A photograph of me standing outside the workshop.
The same workshop now sitting behind a locked gate.
“Grant,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Who gave you that article?”
He did not answer.
He did not need to.
Because suddenly I knew.
My mother.
Or Mallory.
Or both.
And that meant this had started long before the moving truck arrived.
And that meant this had started long before the moving truck arrived.
I ended the call without saying goodbye.
Not because I wanted to be dramatic.
Because I needed the silence.
For years, I had believed the worst thing my family could do was leave me behind.
I was wrong.
The worst thing was realizing they had continued making decisions about my life after I was gone.
I sat at my desk until the room became dark.
The workshop lights outside my window switched off one by one.
My employees had left hours earlier.
The building was quiet.
But my mind was not.
I opened the article Grant mentioned.
It took less than a minute to find it.
A local business magazine had featured Whitaker Restorations after we completed a historic hotel renovation.
The article was something I was proud of.
At the time, I had been uncomfortable with the attention.
I hated seeing my face attached to my work.
Grandma Elaine had always said good craftsmen let the work speak.
But my employees deserved recognition.
The company deserved recognition.
So I agreed.
The photograph showed me standing beside a restored oak staircase.
I was smiling.
Not the polite smile I used at meetings.
A real one.
The kind that surprised me because I did not realize I still had it.
I clicked through the article again.
Nothing unusual.
Nothing dangerous.
Then I noticed the date.
Three years ago.
The same year my mother had unexpectedly called after almost four years of silence.
At the time, I thought she wanted to reconnect.
She had asked questions about my business.
How many employees I had.
Whether I owned the building.
Whether the property was in my name.
I remembered feeling strangely hopeful.
I remembered making coffee while we talked.
I remembered thinking maybe people could change.
The memory felt embarrassing now.
Not because I had wanted a relationship with my mother.
Because I had ignored the warning signs.
Rachel called the next morning before I had finished my first cup of coffee.
“I reviewed the documents you sent.”
I sat at my kitchen table.
“Anything?”
“Yes.”
The way she said it made my stomach tighten.
“What?”
“There is a problem.”
I waited.
“Your business information appears to have been used in a financing package.”
I looked down at my coffee.
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
May you like
Because apparently everyone in my life had decided those three words were a complete explanation.
Rachel continued before I could respond.
