Chương 6
I opened my eyes.
"I know how that sounds."
"It sounds like you signed documents you didn't read."
"I trusted my husband."
Ortiz nodded once.
There was no judgment in it, which somehow made the shame worse.
"He would put things in front of me while I was working," I said.
"Insurance renewals, tax forms, bank paperwork."
"Did Beatrice ever ask you to sign anything?"
"Not directly."
"Richard?"
"No."
Ortiz looked at her notebook.
"Do you know a company called North Ridge Consulting?"
I stared at her.
"No."
"You've never worked for them?"
"No."
"Received income from them?"
"No."
"Authorized them to use your Social Security number?"
My breath caught.
"No."
Ortiz leaned back.
"Then your attorney needs to speak with the financial crimes investigator who's joining this case."
For several seconds the pain in my leg seemed to disappear beneath something colder.
"What did they do?"
"We don't know the full scope."
"You know something."
"We found records."
"What records?"
"Loan documents."
I stared at her.
"In my name?"
"At least one appears to be."
My stomach lurched.
The room tilted.
Ortiz stood immediately and reached for the call button.
"I'm fine."
"You just went white."
"I'm fine."
"Hannah."
"I said I'm fine."
The sharpness in my own voice surprised both of us.
I turned my face away.
"I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize."
"I hate when people tell me what my body is doing."
Ortiz sat again.
"Fair enough."
We remained quiet until the dizziness passed.
Outside my window, traffic moved along the frontage road in slow afternoon lines.
A delivery truck stopped at the light.
A man in orange work pants crossed against the signal while eating something from a paper wrapper.
The entire city had continued through my disaster without noticing.
It was oddly comforting.
Mom came back ten minutes later with Naomi.
I had expected a severe woman in an expensive suit.
Instead Naomi Greene wore black jeans, loafers, and a wrinkled gray blazer over a T-shirt from a charity 10K.
She carried two phones, a legal pad, and a canvas tote bag with a broken zipper.
"You look better than I expected," she said.
"I don't know whether that's a compliment."
"It isn't."
She put the tote on the chair.
"It means your mother described you like you were being airlifted out of a war zone."
Mom folded her arms.
"You had surgery."
"I know, Susan."
Naomi's tone softened immediately.
"I'm not minimizing it."
Mom looked unconvinced but sat down.
Naomi pulled her chair close to mine.
"Detective Ortiz told me the general direction of things."
"She told you more than she told me."
"No, she really didn't."
Naomi opened the legal pad.
"Which is annoying, but normal."
Ortiz almost smiled.
Naomi asked me to send the recording to a secure link she created while she watched.
Then she asked Mom to email copies of the messages from my number and the bank transfer confirmation from Dad.
"Do not forward screenshots if you have original message data," she said.
Mom frowned.
"I don't know what that means."
"Neither does most of humanity."
Naomi took her phone.
"We'll figure it out."
That small exchange made everything feel less impossible.
There were tasks now.
Not vague danger.
Tasks.
Preserve the recording.
Secure account access.
Notify the bank.
Freeze my credit.
Contact HR.
Recover my identification.
Document the injuries.
Naomi listed them in an order that made sense.
When she reached the house, her pen stopped.
"Whose name is on the deed?"
"Mine and Mason's."
"Mortgage?"
"Both."
"Who paid the down payment?"
"Mostly me."
"How much?"
"Forty-two thousand."
"From where?"
"My savings."
She wrote it down.
"Can you prove that?"
"Yes."
I hesitated.
"Probably."
Naomi looked up.
"Probably is different."
"My old statements were digital."
"Do you still control that email account?"
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
"I don't know."
She nodded.
"That's today's theme."
Mom shifted in her chair.
"She can stay with us."
"I know."
Naomi turned to me.
"Do you want to?"
The question irritated me, though I couldn't explain why.
"I can't exactly go home."
"That's not what I asked."
Mom looked hurt.
Naomi noticed but didn't rescue her.
I stared at my cast.
"I don't know."
"Good answer."
Mom said, "Why is that a good answer?"
"Because everybody's been deciding things for her."
The words landed awkwardly between us.
Mom looked down at her hands.
I felt guilty instantly.
She had driven through the night to reach me.
She had brought a lawyer.
She had sat beside my hospital bed while I woke from surgery.
Still, Naomi was right.
"I might stay with you for a little while," I said.
Mom nodded too quickly.
"Of course."
"But I need space too."
Her face tightened.
Then she nodded again, slower this time.
"Okay."
Dad appeared in the doorway carrying four coffees and a bag of crackers nobody had requested.
He looked at Naomi.
"You found the criminal?"
"Which criminal?"
"Mason."
Naomi sighed.
"Paul, I'm a divorce attorney."
"You're still an attorney."
"Unfortunately."
He handed me a coffee.
Elena entered a second later and took it away before I could drink.
"Post-op restrictions."
Dad stared after her.
"I paid six dollars for that."
"You can have it," I said.
"I already have one."
"Then you own two coffees."
He looked genuinely annoyed.
For the first time all day, I smiled.
The expression hurt my face.
Dad noticed.
He pretended not to.
Later that evening, Ortiz returned with news.
Beatrice had been arrested on an aggravated assault charge connected to my injury.
Mason had not been arrested for the assault itself.
Not yet.
Richard had given police a statement confirming Beatrice struck me with the rolling pin.
I sat up too quickly.
"He told the truth?"
"Part of it."
My hope stalled.
Ortiz opened her notebook.
"He says you were arguing."
"We were."
"He says Beatrice struck you after you moved toward her."
May you like
"I stepped toward the stove."
"He also says Mason told everyone afterward that you'd fallen."
