CHAP 3 — BEFORE SUNRISE
I drove to my parents’ house in Plano because it was the only place I knew Jason would hesitate to enter without permission. My father opened the door at 5:58 a.m. He was wearing gray sweatpants and one sock. He looked at my suitcase. Then at my face. Then at the white satin robe visible beneath my coat. “Rachel?” I said, “I need you not to ask me anything for ten minutes.” He stepped aside. My mother appeared at the end of the hallway, wrapped in a robe. Her smile vanished. “Oh, honey.” “No.” That was all I managed. “No hugging yet. If you hug me, I think I’ll fall apart.” My mother stopped. My father quietly locked the door. I sat at their kitchen table while dawn turned the windows gray. Then I placed Jason’s iPad in the center of the table. “What is that?” my father asked. “The reason I left.” I told them about Amber. I told them about the messages. Then I told them about the home equity application. My father’s face changed. He had spent thirty-two years in commercial insurance. Betrayal hurt him. Fraud made him cold. “Show me.” I did. He read the application twice. My mother sat beside him with both hands covering her mouth. “That isn’t your signature?” “No.” “You’re sure?” I looked at her. “Mom.” She closed her eyes. “Of course you are.” My father asked, “How much did we give you for the house?” “Forty thousand.” “And your savings?” “Seventy-two.” “How much did Jason put in?” “About thirty.” My father stood. “Call the bank.” “It’s six in the morning.” “Then call when they open.” He pointed toward the iPad. “And call a lawyer before you call your husband.” I already knew which lawyer. Leah Moreno and I had met during my first year after college. We had worked together at a nonprofit for eleven miserable months before going in different career directions. She had gone to law school. We still had lunch every few months. At 7:14 a.m., I texted: I need a divorce lawyer. Urgent. Do you know someone? She called in less than thirty seconds. “You got married yesterday.” “Legally four months ago.” Silence. Then, “What happened?” “I think my husband forged my signature on a home equity loan.” Another silence. “I’m coming to you.” “No. Tell me who to call.” “Rachel, where are you?” “My parents’ house.” “Stay there.” “Leah—” “I do family law now.” I had forgotten. Or maybe I had never really understood what kind. She arrived forty-five minutes later carrying two coffees and a legal pad. She listened without interrupting. When I finished, she pointed at the iPad. “Did you guess his passcode?” “I already knew it. He gave it to me years ago.” “Did you break into any account you weren’t normally authorized to access?” “No.” “Did you impersonate him?” “No.” “Good. Don’t do anything else. Don’t delete anything. Don’t message Amber from his account. Don’t forward emails from his mailbox anymore.” My stomach dropped. “I already emailed screenshots to myself.” “That may be fine. We’ll handle it carefully. From now on, preservation only.” She asked my father for a clean plastic storage bag. He stared at her. “For an iPad?” “Not because it’s a murder weapon, Mr. Bennett. Because Rachel needs to stop carrying it around like a purse.” Despite everything, I laughed. It sounded strange. Leah smiled briefly. Then she became serious again. “We’re going to make three calls. The lender. A forensic consultant. And a board-certified family lawyer I trust if this turns into something larger than my current caseload.” “I thought you said you do family law.” “I do. But if we have fraud, business funds and potentially forged lending documents, I want a team before Jason realizes what you have.” As if summoned by his name, my phone rang. Jason. Leah held out her hand. “May I?” I gave her the phone. She declined the call. Then she turned on Do Not Disturb, allowing only my parents and herself through. “What if he thinks I’m hiding?” “You are hiding.” She met my eyes. “Temporarily. From someone who may have forged your signature.” At 8:03 a.m., the lender’s fraud department answered. I verified my identity. Then I said the sentence that made the representative’s tone change. “I did not apply for this loan and I did not sign these documents.” The line went quiet. After several security questions, she told me the application would be frozen pending investigation. No closing could occur Monday. No funds would be released. I almost cried from relief. Then she said, “Ms. Bennett, one more thing.” “Yes?” “The application was initiated through an online portal using an email address ending in 74.” “That isn’t my email.” “We’ll document that.” “Do you have the full address?” “I can’t provide it over this call.” Leah wrote something down. “Ask whether they’ll preserve access logs.” I did. The representative said yes. At 8:41, Jason texted from a new number. You froze the loan? I stared. He already knew. Leah read the message over my shoulder. “That’s useful.” “How?” “He just connected himself to knowledge he shouldn’t necessarily have this quickly.” Another message arrived. You have no idea what you’re doing. Then: That loan was for OUR house. Then: Amber told me you took my iPad. My breath stopped. I looked at Leah. She looked at me. “Now he knows.” My father said, “Good.” Leah shook her head. “No. Not good.” She pulled her phone from her bag. “Now we assume he starts cleaning up.”
