Chapter 4 - The Signature That Wasn’t Mine
Her name was Rebecca Hayes.
Gregory’s former wife.
According to Gregory, Rebecca had died four years earlier after a long illness.
He had told me the story on our third date.
He said her death was why he struggled with commitment.
Why he worried about losing people.
Why he sometimes became “protective.”
I had believed him.
Rebecca Hayes was alive.
Not only alive.
She worked as an independent transaction coordinator for Lakeshore Urban Acquisitions.
I stared at the company profile Samantha found.
Same name.
Same age range.
Same city.
A professional photograph.
Dark hair.
Gray eyes.
I had seen her before.
Not in person.
In a framed photograph Gregory kept inside a drawer.
When I asked who she was, he told me Rebecca.
The wife he had lost.
Christopher looked at me carefully.
“You okay?”
“No.”
It had become my most honest answer.
Samantha called a colleague who handled complex real-estate disputes.
Catherine sat beside me.
I kept thinking about Gregory crying when he told me Rebecca had died.
Actual tears.
He had excused himself from dinner.
I had felt guilty for bringing up the subject.
Now I understood something terrifying about people like Gregory.
A convincing emotion did not make the story behind it true.
Sometimes the emotion itself was part of the lie.
Rebecca’s role connected pieces we had not understood.
She had created transaction forms.
Marcus handled acquisitions.
Gregory had access to me, my documents, and the property.
Helen provided notarization.
It looked less like a desperate boyfriend trying to make money and more like a system.
“How many times have they done this?” I asked.
Samantha did not answer.
She did not need to.
We searched public property disputes, civil filings, company registrations, and transaction records that were available to review.
A pattern emerged.
Not proof.
A pattern.
Several properties acquired by companies connected to Marcus had involved owners going through divorces, financial stress, illness, or family transitions.
People who might be easier to isolate.
People who might accept pressure because they were already overwhelmed.
I had been divorced.
Lonely.
Trying to rebuild.
Gregory had appeared exactly when I was tired of doing everything alone.
He did not rescue me.
He studied me.
At 9:15 that night, Samantha received a return call from Rebecca.
The room went silent.
Samantha put the call on speaker after explaining who was present.
Rebecca’s voice was cautious.
“Is Gregory there?”
“No.”
“Is Alison safe?”
I almost laughed at the irony.
“You’re asking me?”
Rebecca exhaled.
“I deserve that.”
“Are you his wife?”
“Ex-wife.”
“And alive.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he tell me you were dead?”
“I can guess.”
“Guess.”
“To stop you looking for me.”
That answer felt obvious once spoken.
I asked about the document created on her computer.
Rebecca was silent.
Then she said, “Gregory asked me to prepare it.”
“You knew it involved my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“You knew I hadn’t agreed to sell?”
“No.”
I did not believe her.
She heard it in my silence.
“He told me you wanted a fast private sale because of your divorce.”
“My divorce was two years ago.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“You work with Marcus.”
“I have.”
“Gregory told me Marcus was his cousin.”
Rebecca made a bitter sound.
“They aren’t related.”
“We figured that out.”
Samantha asked the important question.
“Ms. Hayes, were you aware of the limited power of attorney?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
“Did Gregory say Alison signed it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever speak with Alison?”
“No.”
“Did that concern you?”
Rebecca did not answer quickly enough.
“Yes.”
“But you continued.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Rebecca’s voice changed.
“Because leaving Gregory doesn’t always mean Gregory is finished with you.”
Nobody spoke.
That sentence sounded less like an excuse and more like a warning.
She told us their marriage had ended six years earlier, not four.
Gregory had controlled finances.
Opened accounts in her name.
Used private information to pressure her.
After the divorce, he repeatedly appeared in business deals connected to people she knew.
She eventually stopped fighting and cooperated when he demanded administrative favors.
“You could have reported him,” I said.
“I tried once.”
“What happened?”
“He convinced everyone it was a divorce dispute.”
The phrase landed hard.
Minor lover’s quarrel.
Domestic misunderstanding.
Emotional woman.
Different words.
Same strategy.
Rebecca said Marcus operated more carefully.
He did not threaten.
He presented opportunities.
Distressed-property purchases.
Fast closings.
Private investors.
Gregory supplied leads.
“How did I become a lead?”
Rebecca asked, “Where did you meet him?”
“A fundraiser.”
“Which one?”
I told her.
She went silent.
“What?”
“Gregory didn’t meet you accidentally.”
My entire body went cold.
“What does that mean?”
“Marcus had a list.”
“What list?”
“Potential owners.”
I stood.
“What kind of potential owners?”
“People who owned valuable property without complicated title issues.”
My hands shook.
Rebecca continued.
“Single owners were preferable.”
The room blurred slightly.
“And children?”
Silence.
“Rebecca.”
“Children complicated occupancy.”
My voice changed.
“Answer me.”
“If a child had formal residency somewhere else, the property could sometimes be represented as having fewer occupancy complications.”
I thought of Abigail.
Her school records.
Catherine’s address.
Gregory asking why she was registered there.
“He chose me because of my apartment.”
“I think Marcus noticed the property first.”
“Then Gregory approached me?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You do.”
“I know he attended the fundraiser because Marcus asked him to.”
That was enough.
Our relationship had not started with attraction.
It started with a property search.
I walked to the window.
For eight months, I had replayed our first meeting as one of the luckiest nights of my life.
Gregory had remembered my drink.
Asked about my work.
Listened when I told him how hard divorce had been.
He said he admired independent women.
I had never realized he was evaluating the independence itself.
Samantha asked Rebecca whether Gregory had access to a copy of my signature before the forged power of attorney appeared.
Rebecca said yes.
“How?”
“Digital documents.”
“What documents?”
“I don’t know.”
I did.
Three months earlier, Gregory had offered to submit an insurance reimbursement for me.
The form required my signature.
I emailed him a scanned copy.
He had a clean sample.
Samantha wrote that down.
Rebecca then said something unexpected.
“Alison, you need to check your bank accounts.”
“I already did.”
“Not only yours.”
I looked at Christopher.
“What do you mean?”
“Check whether anything has been opened for Abigail.”
My heart stopped.
“Why?”
“Gregory once used a child’s information to create the appearance of family financial obligations.”
“Whose child?”
Rebecca went quiet.
“Mine.”
Nobody moved.
“You have a child with him?”
“Yes.”
Gregory had never mentioned one.
“How old?”
“Fourteen.”
I sat slowly.
“And you let him near my daughter?”
Rebecca’s voice cracked.
“I never met Abigail.”
“You helped prepare documents about her.”
“I know.”
I hated her in that moment.
Maybe unfairly.
Maybe not.
But I could hear something else beneath her words.
Fear.
The kind Abigail had shown on the bus.
Samantha directed us to check Abigail’s credit file and identity records through appropriate channels.
Because she was a minor, the process took effort.
But within hours, we found something.
An inquiry.
A financial services application using Abigail’s identifying information had been initiated three weeks earlier.
Not completed.
Initiated.
The address listed was Catherine’s.
The contact email was not mine.
Christopher looked at the email.
“Do you recognize it?”
“No.”
Samantha searched the visible domain information.
Then Rebecca made a sound through the phone.
“What?”
“I know that email.”
“Whose is it?”
“Marcus.”
The room froze.
Selling the apartment had never been the entire plan.
My daughter’s identity had been pulled into it too.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
It showed the front entrance of Elaine Foster’s residence.
The place where Abigail was staying.
Beneath it was one sentence.
You should be more careful about where you hide family.
Christopher stood so fast his chair hit the wall.
Samantha told me not to respond.
Then a second image arrived.
This one was taken closer.
May you like
From across the street.
And in the upstairs window, behind the curtain, I could see the silhouette of my daughter.
