Chương 8
"Mason said you were leaving him."
"I was trying to."
"He said if you left, you'd take the house and ruin him."
"So he ruined my credit first."
"I didn't know everything."
"You knew enough."
"Yes."
There was no excuse attached this time.
That stopped me.
Richard said, "The detectives took boxes."
"What boxes?"
"Financial records."
"From where?"
"The garage attic."
I frowned.
"I didn't know there were records there."
"They were behind some Christmas decorations."
"Who put them there?"
"I don't know."
"Richard."
"I don't."
His voice sharpened, and for the first time I heard something besides guilt.
Fear.
"They asked me about tax returns."
My heartbeat changed.
"What about them?"
"They asked whether you signed them."
"We filed jointly."
"Did you sign paper copies?"
"Usually electronically."
"Did Mason handle it?"
"Yes."
Richard whispered something I couldn't hear.
"What?"
"They found returns with a business listed."
"North Ridge Consulting."
He stopped.
"How do you know that?"
"The detective asked me about it."
"Oh."
That one syllable frightened me.
"Richard, what is North Ridge?"
He hesitated too long.
"Beatrice's company."
The room seemed to contract.
"What?"
"She registered it years ago."
"For what?"
"Consulting."
"What kind of consulting?"
"Nothing, really."
His shame leaked into every word.
"She used it for some bookkeeping work, then stopped."
"And Mason used it?"
"I think so."
"To do what?"
"I don't know."
"Stop saying that."
"I don't know."
"Then tell me what you do know."
He breathed in.
"Mason started using the company account after he lost money."
"What money?"
Another pause.
"Hannah."
"What money?"
"Investments."
I almost laughed again.
Mason had always mocked people who called gambling investing.
Apparently vocabulary changed when the losses were his.
"How much?"
"I don't know the total."
"Of course you don't."
"He borrowed from us."
"How much?"
"About sixty thousand over two years."
I stared at the wall.
"Beatrice gave him sixty thousand dollars?"
"We both did."
"And when that wasn't enough?"
Richard didn't answer.
A shape began forming around facts I still didn't have.
The changed direct deposit.
My father's three thousand dollars.
The loans.
The fake company.
The hidden mail.
The pressure for me to quit working.
Mason had not merely wanted control for its own sake.
He needed access.
He needed income.
He needed my name functioning while I did not.
"What kind of investments?"
I asked.
"Crypto at first."
Richard sounded embarrassed saying it.
"Then some online trading thing."
"Did he lose all of it?"
"Most."
"Did Beatrice know?"
"Yes."
That answer came quickly.
"And she helped him?"
"I think she believed he'd fix it."
"By borrowing under my name."
Richard said nothing.
"Did she know about the loans?"
"I don't know every—"
"Did she know?"
A long breath.
"Yes."
I lowered the phone into my lap for a second.
The room hummed around me.
Air vent.
IV pump.
Footsteps in the hall.
A cart rolling past.
I brought the receiver back to my ear.
"Why did she break my leg?"
Richard made a small sound.
"I don't know."
"Try."
"Hannah."
"Try."
He swallowed audibly.
"You told us at dinner that you had scheduled an appointment with a financial planner."
I remembered.
It had been an ordinary comment.
My employer had changed retirement plan administrators, and I wanted someone to review my accounts because several statements no longer made sense.
Beatrice had gone strangely quiet.
Mason had changed the subject.
"I said I wanted to organize our finances."
"Yes."
"And Beatrice knew that would expose something."
"I think so."
My skin prickled.
"So dinner wasn't really about salt."
"I don't think it was."
A piece of the kitchen rearranged itself in my memory.
The way Beatrice had watched me before I mentioned Richard's blood pressure.
The tightness around her mouth.
The speed with which anger had arrived.
The rolling pin had been nearby, but the rage had already been there.
"What was she afraid I'd find?"
"I don't know."
"Richard."
"Accounts."
"What accounts?"
"Maybe the home equity paperwork."
I stopped breathing.
"What home equity paperwork?"
He cursed quietly.
"Richard."
"Mason tried to borrow against the house."
"Without me?"
"He said you signed."
"I didn't."
"I know that now."
"When?"
"June."
June.
The month Mason had insisted I sign a stack of refinance documents while I was late for work.
He had stood in the kitchen tapping the pages and saying they were only insurance confirmations.
I had signed three places without reading.
My stomach turned.
"Did the loan go through?"
"I don't think so."
"You don't think so."
"The bank asked for additional verification."
"What kind?"
"I don't know."
"Did they call me?"
"I heard Mason arguing with someone about a video identification requirement."
For the first time that night, I felt something close to relief.
Small.
Fragile.
But real.
A system had resisted him somewhere.
Not because anyone had saved me.
Because paperwork had been inconvenient.
"Why didn't you tell police all of this earlier?"
"I did."
"Tonight?"
"Some of it this afternoon."
"Why are you calling me?"
He was quiet for so long that I wondered whether the connection had dropped.
Then he said, "Mason came back to the house after the hospital."
My spine stiffened.
"When?"
"About an hour ago."
"Police released him?"
"They hadn't arrested him."
"What did he want?"
"The laptop."
I looked toward the door.
"Did he get it?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"The police took it."
I let out a breath.
Richard continued.
"He was furious."
"At you?"
"At everybody."
"What did he say?"
"He said I betrayed the family."
Something bitter rose in me.
"Welcome."
Richard almost laughed.
It died immediately.
"He said Beatrice could go to prison because of me."
"No."
My voice hardened.
"Because of Beatrice."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Because I'm not listening to another man explain how women caused the consequences of his choices."
He went silent.
I regretted the sharpness for half a second.
May you like
Then I didn't.
Richard said, "He asked me to tell the police you had been unstable for months."
