CHAP 4 — THE FIRST LIE
By noon, Jason had transformed from guilty husband into concerned victim.
I learned this through mutual friends.
First came the texts.
Rachel, Jason says you disappeared. Are you okay?
Then:
He says you had some kind of breakdown.
Then:
Amber told Megan you misunderstood something.
By one o’clock, the story had grown.
I had panicked after the wedding.
I was overwhelmed.
I had become irrational when Jason tried to help an intoxicated Amber.
I had taken his personal property.
I had frozen a legitimate loan we had both discussed.
At 1:17 p.m., my mother pushed her phone across the kitchen table.
A Facebook message from Jason’s mother, Linda.
Please tell Rachel we love her and just want her to come home before she destroys her marriage over a misunderstanding.
I read it twice.
Then I handed the phone back.
“Don’t answer.”
My mother’s face tightened.
“I wasn’t going to.”
Leah returned from making calls in the living room.
“Good news first. The forensic examiner can image the iPad today.”
“And bad news?”
“Jason retained counsel.”
“That fast?”
“He either had someone ready or he found someone very motivated.”
She sat across from me.
“His lawyer contacted me.”
“How does he know you represent me?”
“I told Jason when he called my office.”
I stared.
“He called you?”
“He found my name because I texted you last year about lunch and apparently your messages synced onto the old tablet too.”
That made my skin crawl.
Leah continued.
“His attorney wants the iPad returned immediately.”
“No.”
“That was also my answer.”
“What can they do?”
“They can seek an order. They can argue it contains private or proprietary information.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“But,” she added, “that doesn’t erase what you saw. And if there is evidence of fraud, we can seek preservation through proper channels.”
I looked at the sealed bag on the counter.
“It feels insane that he can demand it back.”
“Marriage doesn’t eliminate privacy law, and evidence rules are messy. That’s why we stop playing detective and start doing this correctly.”
At 3:00 p.m., we met the forensic examiner in a conference room at Leah’s office.
His name was Simon Reed.
He looked like the most ordinary man in Texas.
Khaki pants.
Blue shirt.
Wire-frame glasses.
He asked me how I obtained the device, whether it was shared, whether Jason had ever told me not to use it.
“He used to tell me to put recipes on it,” I said.
Simon nodded.
“Helpful context.”
He connected the iPad to equipment and created a forensic image.
I did not understand most of what he did.
I understood one sentence.
“If something was deleted but still recoverable, we may find it.”
Amber called while we were there.
I watched her name appear.
Leah asked, “Want to hear what she says?”
“No.”
“Good.”
Amber left a voicemail anyway.
Rachel, please. I know you hate me. You should. But this isn’t what you think. Jason is scared, and when he’s scared he does things he regrets. Please don’t make decisions before we talk. There are things you don’t know.
I listened once.
Then Leah saved it.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think she wants to know what I found.”
“So do I.”
That evening, Jason finally sent a message that was not emotional.
It was an offer.
I’ll give you the house. We file uncontested. You return my devices and sign a confidentiality agreement. We can be done in sixty days.
I showed Leah.
She leaned back.
“Interesting.”
“He’s offering me the house.”
“No. He’s offering you something you already have a major financial claim to.”
“But if it ends this—”
“Rachel.”
Her voice softened.
“If this were only infidelity, I would tell you settlement can be peace. But a man who forged your signature on a six-figure loan application is not offering peace because he suddenly became generous.”
She tapped the message.
“He wants the iPad.”
The next morning, Simon called.
His voice was calm.
“I found deleted data.”
My heart began to race.
“How much?”
“A lot.”
“From Amber?”
“Some.”
“What else?”
“A folder that was deleted approximately nine hours before the wedding ceremony.”
I closed my eyes.
“What was in it?”
“Copies of internal Whitmore invoices. Bank records. And a draft agreement involving Red Creek Consulting.”
“What agreement?”
Simon paused.
“I think your attorney should see it with you.”
“Simon.”
Another pause.
“The document describes a repayment schedule for money routed through Red Creek.”
“How much money?”
He told me.
I sat down.
Four hundred and eighty-six thousand dollars.
May you like
Not ours.
Jason’s employer’s.
