Chương 6
"I was trying to protect us."
"Protect us?"
I laughed quietly.
"You hurt me."
"I know."
"You lied to me."
"I know."
"You brought another woman into our home."
"I know."
The last answer was different.
It was not defensive.
It was broken.
For one second, I heard the man I married.
And that made me angry.
Because I hated that he was still somewhere inside the person who destroyed my life.
"What do you want from me?"
"I need you to remember something."
"What?"
"Before all of this."
I said nothing.
"Our first year together."
I looked away.
"Why?"
"Because I was not always this person."
The sentence hurt because it was true.
People who hurt others were not born as villains.
They became them through choices.
"I don't know who you are anymore," I said.
"I know."
"And I don't know if I ever did."
Another silence.
Then Grant said something that changed the conversation.
"Vanessa came to you, didn't she?"
My body went still.
"How do you know?"
He did not answer.
"Grant."
"Because she was supposed to leave."
"What does that mean?"
"Claire, listen to me."
The urgency in his voice returned.
"She is not telling you everything."
I looked toward the hallway.
"Neither are you."
"No."
His voice dropped.
"This time, I am trying to."
"Why should I believe you?"
"You shouldn't."
That answer surprised me.
"You shouldn't believe anyone right now."
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he said,
"But you need to know something."
"What?"
"I did not create that document."
I tightened my grip on the phone.
"Are you saying someone forged my signature?"
"Yes."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
The answer should have relieved me.
Instead, it created a new fear.
Because if Grant was telling the truth, then the person who had manipulated our marriage had been standing somewhere much closer than either of us realized.
"Claire."
I looked out the window.
"What?"
"Check the date on that document again."
"Why?"
"Because six months ago, I was not trying to take control of your accounts."
I waited.
"I was trying to find out who already had access."
The call ended before I could respond.
I stood alone in the kitchen holding the phone.
A few minutes later, Rachel walked in.
She immediately noticed my face.
"What did he say?"
I looked at the documents on the table.
Then at the date.
Then at my own forged signature.
"He said he wasn't the one who signed it."
Rachel frowned.
"And you believe him?"
I looked down.
"No."
I paused.
"But I believe something is wrong."
That night, for the first time since the storm, the enemy was no longer just Grant Whitmore.
And somehow, that made everything more frightening.
And somehow, that made everything more frightening.
The next morning, Rachel arrived earlier than planned.
That alone told me something had changed.
She was not a person who rushed.
She believed panic made people careless, and careless people made mistakes.
But when she stepped into my father's kitchen holding a folder against her chest, she looked like someone who had spent the night fighting with a problem that refused to make sense.
"You found something," I said.
She placed the folder on the table.
"Maybe."
My father walked in behind me.
"That is not the word I want to hear."
Rachel ignored the comment.
"We reviewed the account transfer documents again."
"And?"
"The filing was submitted electronically."
I waited.
"That means there is a digital record."
My father crossed his arms.
"Can we trace it?"
"Possibly."
The word bothered me.
Everything was possibly.
Everything was maybe.
Every answer existed behind another locked door.
"Who had access?" I asked.
Rachel looked at the papers.
"That is the problem."
She pushed a list toward me.
I scanned the names.
Grant.
His assistant.
Several employees from his company.
Then one name stopped me.
"Why is my name here?"
Rachel looked at me.
"Because the account system listed you as an authorized user."
"I never authorized that."
"I know."
My father leaned closer.
"Claire, when did Grant first handle your financial accounts?"
I thought about it.
"After we got married."
"Why?"
I hated how simple the answer sounded.
"Because I trusted him."
My father looked away.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
Just hurt.
I realized then that he was not struggling with Grant.
He was struggling with the fact that the person he had trusted around his daughter had betrayed both of them.
"I gave him access," I said.
Rachel shook her head.
"Access is not permission to commit fraud."
"But I made it possible."
"No."
Her voice was firm.
"Do not confuse kindness with responsibility for someone else's choices."
I looked down.
It was difficult to accept that.
For years, I had believed being a good wife meant making things easier for Grant.
I adjusted my schedule.
I supported his career.
I defended him when my father questioned his decisions.
I thought love meant removing obstacles.
I never considered that one day I might be the obstacle he wanted removed.
Later that afternoon, my father's security team discovered something outside his property.
A black sedan had been parked near the road for almost two hours.
The driver left before anyone approached.
My father immediately wanted more protection around the house.
I wanted to say no.
I wanted to tell him I did not want my life to become a fortress.
But then I remembered the storm.
I remembered the locked door closing behind me.
Fear was not always weakness.
Sometimes fear was information.
"Did you see who it was?" I asked the security director.
"No."
"Then how do we know it was about me?"
He looked uncomfortable.
"We don't."
That answer bothered me less than certainty would have.
At least someone was being honest.
That evening, I asked my father to walk with me.
He looked surprised.
"You hate walking."
"I used to."
May you like
"Since when?"
"Since I realized I spent too much time sitting in cars."
