Chương 8
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“Thank you.”
He nodded.
“You did look scared.”
That surprised me.
“I was not scared.”
He gave me a skeptical look.
“You came into my apartment with one shoe and almost poured water down your shirt.”
Heat rose into my face.
“That is not proof of anything.”
“No.”
He shelled another pistachio.
“But it’s what I saw.”
I asked whether he would speak to Detective Price if contacted.
He agreed.
Then, as I stood to leave, he said, “For what it’s worth, your fiancé never looked scared.”
I turned.
“How did he look?”
“Angry.”
He shrugged.
“Then not angry when the cop came.”
That stayed with me.
At five, Rachel called again.
She had received a response from Martin Bell.
“They want to arrange retrieval of Chase’s property.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“Yes.”
“Why do you sound like it isn’t?”
“Because Bell also claims Chase has an equitable interest in the condo based on contributions and improvements.”
I laughed.
Rachel did not.
“He picked paint colors.”
“Did he pay contractors?”
“No.”
“Furniture?”
“Some.”
“Mortgage?”
“No.”
“Association fees?”
“No.”
“Taxes?”
“No.”
“Repairs?”
“Not meaningfully.”
“Keep records.”
“I have them.”
“I assumed you did.”
I sat at the kitchen island.
“Is this real?”
“The claim exists.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I know.”
Her voice softened.
“It may be weak, but weak claims still cost time and money.”
There it was again.
Consequence.
Everything Chase had received casually while living with me had become potential leverage now that he was leaving.
Rachel suggested arranging a supervised property pickup within several days, preferably through counsel and building security.
I agreed.
Then she asked whether there were sentimental items, documents, electronics, or jointly purchased property likely to cause disputes.
I looked around.
The espresso machine was his.
The sofa had been mine before him.
The television was mine.
Most of the art was mine.
His clothes occupied half the bedroom closet and somehow looked less expensive without him wearing them.
“There’s the engagement ring.”
Rachel paused.
“Where is it?”
I looked at my left hand.
I was still wearing it.
The realization made my skin crawl.
I pulled it off.
For two years, I had removed it only to shower, sleep, or work with dough.
Now the indentation around my finger looked obscene.
“Here.”
“Do not sell it, alter it, or dispose of it.”
“I wasn’t going to throw it in the river.”
“I’ve had clients do stranger things.”
I placed the ring in a small ceramic dish beside the refrigerator.
Then I reconsidered and moved it into my office safe.
At six, Mara finally left.
She had spent most of the day at my condo instead of our office and received no fewer than five calls from her husband about their daughter refusing a bottle.
“You need to go home,” I told her.
“You need someone here.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You say that too easily.”
“So do you.”
She stared at me.
Then she took her coat.
“Call me if he comes back.”
“I’ll call security.”
“Call me too.”
“You have a baby.”
“I’m aware.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I was there when she came out.”
That made me laugh.
She smiled, satisfied.
“Good.”
After she left, the condo felt enormous.
I turned on every light.
Not because I was afraid.
That was what I told myself.
I made pasta and ate it standing at the counter.
Then I opened Chase’s email again.
Not the message to me.
The spreadsheet Celeste had forwarded from his account.
Something about it bothered me beyond the fake vendor contacts.
I downloaded the attachment and examined the metadata.
The spreadsheet had been created almost four months earlier.
The author field showed “C. Mercer.”
The last saved by field showed “D. Mercer.”
That did not prove criminal intent.
It did establish collaboration.
I checked the document’s revision information.
Most metadata had been stripped, but not all of it.
The original file path included a folder name.
HOME EQUITY.
I stopped chewing.
I opened the file again.
Nothing inside mentioned a home.
Nothing mentioned financing.
I searched Chase’s emails in my own inbox for the phrase.
Three results appeared.
Two were advertisements.
The third was from seven months earlier.
Chase had forwarded me an article about home-equity loans with a note.
Could be smart someday if we renovate.
I had replied, Not interested in borrowing against the condo.
His response had been a thumbs-up emoji.
At the time, I had forgotten the exchange within minutes.
Now my scalp prickled.
I logged into my mortgage account.
No changes.
No line of credit.
No new lien I could see through the lender portal.
Then I checked county records.
Nothing new appeared.
Relief came too quickly.
I did not trust it.
I pulled my credit reports again.
No unfamiliar mortgage account.
No hard inquiry I failed to recognize.
I sat back.
Maybe the file path meant nothing.
Maybe Diane had saved it into the wrong folder.
People did that constantly.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Celeste.
I found another email you should see.
A forwarded message arrived.
It was from Chase to Diane, sent five months earlier.
The subject line was appraisal.
The body contained only six words.
She won’t agree if we ask.
Attached was a PDF.
I did not open it immediately.
My hand hovered over the trackpad.
Then I clicked.
It was an automated valuation estimate for my condo based on comparable sales.
Not an official appraisal.
Not enough for a loan.
Enough to tell someone approximately how much equity I had.
I read Chase’s six words again.
She won’t agree if we ask.
The sentence did not mention me by name.
It did not need to.
I forwarded everything to Rachel.
Then I called Mara.
She answered with a crying baby in the background.
“What happened?”
“I found something.”
“Hold on.”
There was rustling.
A door closed.
The baby became muffled.
“Go.”
I told her.
She was silent afterward.
May you like
“That’s bad,” she said.
“Yes.”
