Chapter 4 - FIVE WOMEN
The first woman was named Susan Bell.
Fifty-four.
Rochester.
Her husband had worked with Jason three years earlier.
Susan had inherited a duplex from her parents.
After refinancing, the property was transferred into a limited liability company.
Six months later, the marriage ended.
The duplex disappeared into foreclosure litigation.
The second woman was Monica Alvarez.
Forty-seven.
Syracuse.
Inherited land.
Husband developed sudden “business problems.”
Emergency loan.
Property transfer.
Divorce.
The third was Penny Rhodes.
Her husband had been a subcontractor for Richard Cole.
She lost a rental property during bankruptcy.
The fourth was Irene Shaw.
Her inheritance had been used to secure construction debt.
The fifth woman was dead.
Carol Landry.
Thomas and I sat across from Rachel in her office the following morning.
My birthday was over.
The consequences were not.
Rachel studied the files.
“Pattern doesn’t prove conspiracy.”
Thomas nodded.
“I know.”
“But it gives us somewhere to look.”
“Did Claire represent them?”
“Three.”
“Richard?”
“Involved indirectly in four.”
“Jason?”
Thomas looked at me.
“Connected to all five through sales or project development.”
I felt sick.
Maybe the affair was not the ugliest part of my marriage.
Maybe the entire marriage itself had been useful to someone.
Rachel saw my expression.
“Don’t jump that far yet.”
“How far?”
“To the idea that Jason married you for money.”
I had not said it.
She knew anyway.
“Seven years is a long con.”
“So is marriage.”
“Natalie.”
I looked away.
Thomas shifted uncomfortably.
“There’s something about Carol Landry.”
“What?”
“Her husband disappeared after she died.”
“Disappeared?”
“Moved.”
“Where?”
“Florida, supposedly.”
“You don’t believe that?”
“I can’t find him.”
Rachel leaned back.
“And Carol?”
“Car accident.”
I stared at him.
“Stop.”
He looked at me.
“We are not turning this into murder because you watched too many thrillers.”
Thomas held up both hands.
“I’m not.”
“Good.”
“I’m saying financial exploitation appears to have existed around multiple marriages.”
“That’s enough.”
It was more than enough.
At noon, Rachel filed for emergency relief to stop any transfer or new lien against the house or cottage.
By two, we had notified both lenders.
By three, Thomas’s attorney had contacted investigators regarding Claire’s use of client information.
By four, Jason finally responded through a lawyer.
Not with an apology.
With a demand.
He wanted access to the marital residence.
Rachel read the letter aloud.
I laughed.
“What?”
“He tried to take almost half a million against the house yesterday.”
“And today he wants his golf clubs.”
Rachel smiled.
“Apparently.”
Then her expression became serious.
“There’s also a request for personal financial documents.”
“Why?”
“He’s claiming some of the inheritance was commingled.”
“Some was.”
“Yes.”
My confidence shifted.
Rachel noticed.
“That does not mean he owns everything.”
“But?”
“It means this won’t be as clean as telling him to disappear.”
I nodded.
I wanted truth more than reassurance.
“What happens now?”
“We document.”
“Everything.”
That afternoon, I returned home with a police escort to collect some items before staying temporarily with a coworker.
Diane had been released.
She was ordered not to contact me pending further proceedings.
Jason had not returned.
The house felt different.
Not safer.
Exposed.
Like the walls had been listening for years.
I went to Diane’s room.
I had never searched it before.
Part of me felt guilty.
Then I remembered the pot.
The forged signature.
The stolen financial documents.
The guilt disappeared.
Her drawers contained church bulletins.
Prescription bottles.
Receipts.
Jewelry.
Nothing.
Her closet contained forty-three pairs of shoes.
Apparently chronic back pain respected designer footwear.
Then I opened the bottom drawer of her desk.
Inside was a notebook.
My name appeared on the first page.
Not once.
Dozens of times.
Natalie Bennett.
Natalie Whitmore.
N. Bennett.
N. B. Whitmore.
Someone had practiced my signature.
Page after page.
My knees almost gave out.
I called Officer Doyle.
He told me not to touch anything else.
While waiting, I saw an envelope beneath the notebook.
It contained printed emails between Diane and Claire.
Most were mundane.
Property values.
Mortgage rates.
Closing requirements.
Then I found one dated four months earlier.
From Diane:
She keeps the original estate papers in the upstairs cabinet. Jason says she usually sleeps heavily after a long shift. We need the agreement before she decides to review it again.
Claire had replied:
Do not remove anything permanently. Photograph what we need.
Another message.
Diane:
What if she refuses the refinance?
Claire:
Then Jason handles his wife.
My stomach turned.
Then the final email.
This one was from Jason.
To his mother.
Sent the night before my birthday.
Nat worked twelve hours. She’ll be exhausted. Keep her downstairs tomorrow morning. I only need thirty minutes in the bedroom when I get back.
I read it three times.
Keep her downstairs.
Breakfast had never been about breakfast.
The pot had been an escalation when I refused to get out of bed.
I thought that was the worst message.
Then my phone buzzed.
A voicemail from an unknown number.
I played it.
A woman spoke.
Her voice shook.
“Is this Natalie Whitmore?”
“My name is Monica Alvarez.”
“I think you’re looking into Whitmore Development Partners.”
“I saw the news about Diane being questioned.”
A pause.
Then:
May you like
“If Jason Whitmore is your husband, you need to listen to me very carefully.”
“Do not meet him alone.”
