Chapter 2 - Someone at the Party Knew
I read the message twice.
Then I looked around the room.
Nobody moved.
Frank reached for the phone.
I pulled it away.
“Who sent this?”
“Claire, give me the phone.”
“Who?”
His face had changed.
The anger was gone.
Now there was fear.
Rebecca had warned me that once Frank knew what I possessed, his behavior might become unpredictable.
I had imagined shouting.
Denial.
Maybe humiliation.
I had not imagined another person in the room being involved.
The message came from a number with no saved name.
I held the screen toward him.
“Who is it?”
Dana suddenly said, “I’m leaving.”
“No,” Frank snapped.
Everyone looked at her.
She stopped.
Frank closed his eyes briefly.
That tiny reaction told me enough.
“You know,” I said.
Dana shook her head.
“I know Frank lied to me.”
“About me?”
“About everything.”
Her voice cracked.
Frank stepped forward.
“Dana, don't.”
She laughed bitterly.
“Why? Because your wife finally knows you’ve been playing both of us?”
I felt no satisfaction.
Only exhaustion.
“Did you send this message?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
Dana looked toward Stephen.
Frank's older colleague.
Stephen had known Frank for nearly fifteen years.
He had attended our wedding.
He was godfather to Noah.
My skin went cold.
Stephen slowly placed his glass on the table.
“Don't look at me like that.”
Dana said, “Tell her.”
Frank swore.
Stephen's face hardened.
“Frank, you created this problem. Handle it.”
My chest tightened.
“What problem?”
Stephen looked at me.
“The company.”
Marlowe Holdings was not merely an affair-funded escape plan.
It was tied to Frank's consulting firm.
Stephen explained reluctantly that Frank had moved money through the LLC because a business venture was failing.
Frank interrupted repeatedly.
Stephen ignored him.
Some of the money came from our marital investments.
Some had been intended to cover company obligations.
“How much?” I asked.
Nobody answered.
“How much?”
Stephen finally said, “Potentially half a million.”
The floor seemed to shift.
Frank said, “That number is misleading.”
“You stole from our family.”
“I was replacing it.”
“With what?”
“The deal was supposed to close.”
Dana spoke quietly.
“There is no deal.”
Frank turned toward her.
“Shut up.”
“No.”
It was the first time she sounded strong.
“You told me Marlowe was for us. You said you were putting your own money into it.”
Frank looked trapped.
Good.
But something still did not fit.
The message had been sent seconds after I revealed the folder.
Someone knew in real time.
Melissa, Greg, Paul, Amanda, Stephen, Dana.
Or Frank himself had arranged an automated warning.
I photographed the message.
Then I handed his phone back.
“Party's over.”
Nobody argued.
Dana was last to leave.
At the door, she slipped something into my hand.
A hotel keycard.
Room 814.
“Tomorrow,” she whispered. “Ten a.m. Go alone.”
Before I could ask why, she left.
Frank saw the exchange.
“What did she give you?”
“Nothing.”
He laughed without humor.
“So now you’re lying?”
I stared at him.
“You lost the right to complain about lies.”
He followed me into the dining room.
The candles were dying.
The beautiful cake sat untouched.
“What exactly do you want?” he asked.
“The truth.”
“You publicly humiliated me.”
“You invited your mistress to the party.”
“I didn't invite Dana. You did.”
That stopped me.
I had used the guest list Frank gave me two weeks earlier.
Dana's name had been on it.
But Frank was right.
Technically, I had sent the invitation.
Why would he put his mistress on the list?
Unless he wanted her there.
Or someone else had added her.
I opened the digital invitation list on my tablet.
Dana Mercer.
Added twelve days ago.
Account: Frank Reynolds.
“You added her.”
Frank looked confused.
“No, I didn’t.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I’m telling you, I didn't.”
He walked closer.
“Claire, someone is trying to destroy me.”
“You did that yourself.”
“Yes. I had an affair.”
The admission landed harder than I expected.
No excuses.
No euphemisms.
“I was selfish. I was stupid. I said horrible things about you because Dana kept asking why I hadn't left.”
My throat tightened.
“Pathetic?”
He looked away.
“Insecure?”
“Claire…”
“Dependent?”
“I was lying to her.”
“You were lying to both of us.”
“Yes.”
That one word hurt more than a speech.
I walked upstairs and locked the bedroom door.
Frank slept in his office.
At 6:30 the next morning, Rebecca called.
“We have a problem.”
My pulse jumped.
“What?”
“Someone tried transferring the remaining funds from Marlowe Holdings at 11:43 last night.”
The message.
Move the money now.
“Did it go through?”
“No. The bank flagged it.”
“Who initiated it?”
“That’s what’s strange.”
Rebecca paused.
“The credentials belonged to you.”
I sat upright.
“I don't have credentials.”
“Someone created online access in your name.”
The implication was obvious.
If the money disappeared, records would point toward me.
I told Rebecca about Room 814.
She hated the idea of me going alone.
So we compromised.
She would wait in the hotel lobby.
At ten, I rode the elevator upstairs.
Room 814 was unlocked by Dana's keycard.
Inside, the curtains were closed.
Nobody was there.
On the desk sat a laptop.
Beside it was an envelope.
CLAIRE.
I opened it.
Inside were copies of emails between Frank and Dana.
At first they were romantic.
Then business entered the conversation.
Frank asking Dana about transfers.
Dana warning him.
Then another name appeared repeatedly.
S. HOLLAND.
Stephen Holland.
One email from Stephen to Frank read:
Once Claire signs, liability shifts. Don't complicate this with your girlfriend.
I felt sick.
Stephen knew.
Maybe Stephen had designed the entire arrangement.
I called Rebecca upstairs.
She examined the documents.
“This is bigger than divorce.”
“How big?”
“Potential fraud.”
The laptop was password protected.
Rebecca told me not to touch it until we knew who owned it.
Then the hotel-room door clicked shut behind us.
Dana stood there.
She looked like she had not slept.
“I can unlock it.”
Rebecca stepped between us.
“Who owns the computer?”
“I do.”
“Then unlock it.”
Dana did.
Inside were hundreds of emails.
Frank.
Stephen.
Company accounts.
Marlowe.
And me.
Dana explained that she had discovered the scheme two weeks earlier.
She had confronted Frank.
He claimed Stephen was responsible.
She stopped believing him after seeing a draft document containing my forged signature.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because I was sleeping with your husband.”
Her eyes filled.
“I thought you’d never believe me.”
“You could have tried.”
“I know.”
I did not forgive her.
But I believed that part.
Rebecca copied only materials Dana authorized us to preserve.
Then she found a spreadsheet.
Rows of transfers.
At the bottom was a proposed transaction scheduled for Monday.
$312,000.
From an account labeled C.R. FAMILY TRUST.
“My family trust?”
Rebecca stared at me.
“You have a trust?”
“My father left one when he died.”
Frank had never been a beneficiary.
He shouldn't have had access.
Dana whispered, “Stephen said Frank already had what he needed.”
My phone rang.
It was Emma.
I answered immediately.
“Mom?”
Her voice was shaking.
“What happened?”
“Dad came home.”
I stood.
“He's supposed to be at the apartment.”
“He came to Aunt Sarah's.”
“Why?”
“He wanted the blue folder from your suitcase.”
My blood went cold.
My father’s trust documents.
“Did Sarah give it to him?”
“No. She told him to leave.”
I grabbed my purse.
Then Emma said, “Mom, Dad wasn’t alone.”
I stopped.
“Who was with him?”
“I don't know. An older man.”
Rebecca looked at me.
Emma continued.
“He said he was Grandpa's lawyer.”
My father’s lawyer had died six years earlier.
I drove straight to Sarah's house.
Frank was gone.
The children were safe.
The blue folder remained inside Sarah's locked bedroom.
But something had been slipped beneath the front door.
A photograph.
It showed me leaving the hotel less than thirty minutes earlier.
On the back were four words:
STOP DIGGING, OR LOSE EVERYTHING.
That evening, Rebecca arranged for the children and me to stay somewhere Frank did not know.
At 8:17, I received a call from an unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
A man's voice said, “Claire Reynolds?”
“Yes.”
“My name is David Mercer.”
Mercer.
Dana.
“I’m Dana’s father.”
“What do you want?”
“You need to understand something about your husband.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“He isn't the person who started this.”
“Then who did?”
David went silent.
A knock sounded at my temporary apartment.
Rebecca was not due for another hour.
The children were asleep.
I walked toward the door.
David whispered, “Claire, whatever you do, don't open it.”
May you like
The handle began turning from the outside.
Someone had a key.
