Chapter 3 - The Mistress at My Door
I didn’t wake Margaret immediately.
I watched the security monitor as the woman climbed the porch steps.
Tall.
Dark coat.
Long auburn hair.
She moved like someone who had been there before.
That mattered.
A stranger hesitates at another person’s house.
This woman didn’t.
She inserted the key.
It didn’t turn.
Claire’s return had made me paranoid enough to change the deadbolt that afternoon.
For once, paranoia felt useful.
The woman frowned.
Tried again.
Then knocked.
Three soft taps.
I stood in the dark hallway with one hand against my incision.
Another knock.
“Richard?”
Her voice.
I recognized it.
Faint through a phone speaker.
Vanessa.
My husband’s mistress was standing on my porch.
I turned on the exterior light.
She stepped backward.
I unlocked the door but left the chain secured.
Her face changed when she saw me.
“Charlotte.”
Not Mrs. Bennett.
Charlotte.
She knew exactly who I was.
“You must be Vanessa.”
Her mouth opened.
I watched several possible lies cross her face before she selected one.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“Then explain why you have a key to my house at two in the morning.”
She looked down at the key.
“I thought Richard would be here.”
“He had a kidney transplant three days ago.”
“I know.”
Of course she did.
“Why are you here?”
“He texted me.”
“When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
That didn’t make sense.
Richard should have been asleep.
Unless he had seen me access his computer.
“What did he say?”
Vanessa hesitated.
I held out my hand.
“Show me.”
“No.”
“Then leave.”
“Charlotte, please.”
Margaret’s voice sounded behind me.
“Who the hell is that?”
Vanessa looked past my shoulder.
I almost smiled.
“My sister.”
Margaret appeared wearing pajamas and holding a fireplace poker.
“I assume you’re the girlfriend.”
Vanessa’s face flushed.
“I’m not here to fight.”
“Good,” Margaret said. “Because my orthopedic surgeon says I need more upper-body exercise.”
“Margaret.”
“What?”
I opened the door another inch.
“Vanessa, why did Richard send you here?”
Her confidence finally cracked.
“To get something.”
“What?”
“A file.”
“Which file?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then how were you supposed to find it?”
“He told me where.”
I waited.
She looked toward the hall.
“His office.”
Margaret laughed without humor.
“Of course.”
“What file?”
“Blue folder. Bottom drawer.”
C.B.
My heart kicked.
“You mean the folder with Claire Beaumont’s name on it?”
Vanessa went white.
That answer was enough.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No.”
“Then why do you look terrified?”
She wrapped her coat tighter around herself.
“Richard told me never to open it.”
I studied her.
This woman was sleeping with my husband.
I wanted to hate every part of her.
But beneath the makeup and expensive coat, she looked frightened.
Not guilty.
Frightened.
“How long have you been with him?”
“Charlotte—”
“How long?”
“Eight months.”
Eight months.
My kidney testing had started seven months earlier.
While I underwent blood tests, psychological evaluations, tissue matching, CT scans and endless appointments to prove I was healthy enough to save Richard—
he had been sleeping with Vanessa.
“Did you know I was donating?”
Her eyes dropped.
“Yes.”
Margaret made a disgusted sound.
I asked the next question anyway.
“Did that bother you?”
“Yes.”
“Not enough to stop.”
“No.”
At least she didn’t lie.
I opened the chain.
Margaret stared at me.
“What are you doing?”
“I want answers.”
Vanessa stepped inside cautiously.
I led her to the dining room.
She looked around with unsettling familiarity.
“You’ve been here before.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Twice.”
“When?”
“When you were visiting your daughter in Boston.”
Last Thanksgiving.
I remembered Richard saying he had work deadlines and couldn’t come.
I had defended him when Sophie complained.
“He works hard because he loves us.”
The memory tasted poisonous.
I sat because standing hurt.
Vanessa remained near the door.
“Did Richard promise you this house?”
She closed her eyes.
“Yes.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“That you were planning to move closer to your sister after the surgery. That the marriage had been over for years.”
I laughed.
The incision protested.
“Did he mention that last month we booked an anniversary trip to Charleston?”
“No.”
“Did he mention that six weeks ago he wrote me a letter thanking me for giving him a second chance at life?”
Vanessa shook her head.
“He said you lived separate lives.”
“We shared a bed until the night before surgery.”
She looked sick.
Good.
Then something changed in her face.
“Wait.”
“What?”
“He told me you stopped being intimate two years ago.”
“He lied.”
“I know that now.”
Margaret leaned toward her.
“Congratulations.”
Vanessa ignored the sarcasm.
“He told me you had your own money.”
“I do.”
“That you didn’t care about the house.”
“I care.”
“He said you were going to sign it over voluntarily.”
I placed the forged agreement on the table.
“Like this?”
Vanessa stared at my fake signature.
“I’ve never seen that.”
“Claire has.”
“Claire?”
“The attorney Richard hired.”
Vanessa shook her head.
“I didn’t know there was an attorney.”
Now I believed her.
Richard wasn’t just lying to me.
He was managing different stories for everyone.
I suddenly wondered whether Vanessa was the end of the betrayal or merely another piece.
“What does Richard do with RB Development Consulting?”
Her reaction was immediate.
She knew the name.
“What?”
“Money has been transferred there.”
“I don’t know.”
“You do.”
“I know the company exists.”
“How?”
“Richard uses it for the Hawthorne house.”
My pulse quickened.
“What house?”
She stared at me.
“The house he told me he bought.”
Claire had said Richard wanted to purchase it.
Wanted.
Not had.
“How much did he say he paid?”
“Eight hundred thousand.”
My mouth went dry.
We didn’t have eight hundred thousand dollars available.
Not unless—
“Did he sell something?”
“I don’t know.”
“Vanessa.”
“I swear.”
I watched her carefully.
“Why are you here tonight?”
She pulled out her phone.
The text was from Richard.
GO TO OFFICE. BLUE C.B. FILE. DESTROY EVERYTHING. DON’T CALL.
Sent at 1:52 a.m.
I photographed it with my phone.
Vanessa looked alarmed.
“You can’t use that.”
“I can use anything connected to my house.”
“This could destroy him.”
I looked at her.
“He should have considered that before asking me for an organ.”
She flinched.
For the first time, I saw shame.
Real shame.
“Charlotte, I’m sorry.”
“I don’t need your apology.”
“I didn’t know everything.”
“You knew enough.”
She nodded.
“I did.”
That honesty disarmed me more than another lie would have.
“Why are you helping me now?”
“I’m not.”
Her answer came too quickly.
“Then why show me the message?”
“Because something is wrong.”
“What?”
She looked toward the windows as though someone might be listening.
“Richard has been scared for weeks.”
“Of what?”
“He won’t say.”
“He’s planning a divorce.”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“He told you that.”
“He told me we’d be together. He never said divorce.”
“Then how exactly did he expect me to disappear?”
Vanessa’s eyes met mine.
Neither of us spoke.
Margaret straightened.
“Oh my God.”
“What?” I asked.
She pointed to the paperwork.
“He wasn’t preparing for divorce.”
Vanessa whispered, “He was preparing for something else.”
A chill moved through me.
I wanted to dismiss it.
Richard was selfish.
A liar.
An adulterer.
That didn’t make him dangerous.
Then I remembered the transplant.
My health.
The paperwork.
Beneficiaries.
Insurance.
“Margaret.”
She already understood.
“Life insurance?”
I nodded.
Richard and I each had policies.
Mine was substantial.
Years ago, when the construction company had loans secured against our income, our financial adviser recommended them.
I hadn’t checked mine in years.
I opened my laptop again.
The insurer’s website took several attempts because I couldn’t remember the password.
Finally, the policy appeared.
Coverage amount:
$750,000.
Beneficiary:
Richard Bennett.
I stared at it.
Margaret whispered, “Change it tomorrow.”
“I will.”
But another detail caught my attention.
A recent document request.
Beneficiary confirmation.
Requested six weeks earlier.
By the policyholder.
I had never requested it.
Someone had accessed my account pretending to be me.
Vanessa looked horrified.
“Charlotte, I didn’t know.”
I believed that too.
She stood abruptly.
“I should leave.”
“No.”
“I don’t want to be involved.”
“You already are.”
“I can’t do this.”
She grabbed her purse.
Margaret moved toward the door.
Then Vanessa’s phone rang.
Richard.
All three of us stared at the screen.
She rejected the call.
It rang again.
She rejected it.
Then a text arrived.
DID YOU FIND IT?
Another followed.
VANESSA, ANSWER ME.
Then another.
SHE CAN’T SEE THE RED ENVELOPE.
My skin prickled.
“What red envelope?” Margaret asked.
Vanessa shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
We went back to the office.
The blue folder contained no red envelope.
We emptied the drawer.
Nothing.
Then Margaret noticed the false bottom.
Richard had built the desk himself fifteen years earlier.
She pressed one corner.
A thin wooden panel lifted.
Beneath it lay a red envelope.
My name was written across the front.
CHARLOTTE.
I reached for it.
Vanessa whispered, “Maybe you shouldn’t.”
I tore it open.
Inside was a letter.
Not from Richard.
From our accountant.
The first line made no sense.
Charlotte,
If you are reading this, Richard failed to convince you to sign the medical power of attorney.
I stopped breathing.
Margaret leaned closer.
I read the next line.
You need to know what he changed before your surgery.
A floorboard creaked behind us.
We turned.
May you like
The front door was standing open.
And someone had just entered the house.
