Chapter 3 - THE BEST FRIEND WHO HELPED HIM LIE
Daniel Mercer had hugged me on Thursday night and told me Ethan was lucky to have me.
Now his employee number was attached to a document authorizing the transfer of $180,000 from my inheritance.
I read the number again.
Then I checked the date.
Thursday.
Daniel had approved the paperwork the same evening he and his wife had eaten dinner in our penthouse.
I remembered him complimenting the roast chicken.
I remembered Ethan pouring expensive whiskey.
And I remembered Daniel asking whether I still planned to buy a house outside Chicago.
At the time, I thought he was making conversation.
Now I wasn't so sure.
I slipped the document into my bag and left the penthouse.
By the time I reached Rebecca's townhouse, it was nearly three in the morning.
She opened the door wearing sweatpants and a faded university sweatshirt.
One look at my face, and she stepped aside.
"Kitchen," she said. "I'll make tea."
Rebecca was forty-two, a middle-school principal, and the calmest person I knew.
She'd also disliked Ethan from the moment he joked that I worried too much about money.
I sat at her kitchen table while she filled the kettle.
Then I told her everything.
The nightclub.
Chloe.
The missing ring.
The apartment.
The account.
She listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she looked at the cream-colored envelope.
"Madison, this isn't just cheating."
"I know."
"No. I don't think you do."
She pulled out a chair.
"Someone may be trying to steal from you."
The word steal made my chest tighten.
I had been so focused on Ethan's betrayal that I hadn't fully considered the financial danger.
Rebecca reached for my hand.
"Have you spoken to the investment company?"
"It's three in the morning."
"Then that's what we do first thing."
I nodded.
She squeezed my fingers.
"And until we know what's happening, don't tell Ethan what you found."
"Why?"
"Because if he knows, he'll have time to change his story."
That sounded exactly like Ethan.
He was excellent at changing stories.
For three years, I'd watched him turn small mistakes into misunderstandings and broken promises into my unreasonable expectations.
But this was different.
A forgotten dinner reservation was one thing.
An unauthorized transfer from my inheritance was another.
At 8:05 a.m., I called Northbridge Financial.
A representative confirmed that an investment transfer had been scheduled.
For security reasons, she wouldn't discuss the destination until my identity was verified.
The recovery phone number on my account wasn't mine.
Neither was the recovery email address.
I felt my pulse quicken.
"I didn't make those changes."
The representative became more careful.
"Mrs. Cole, I'm going to escalate this to our fraud department."
"Can the transfer be stopped?"
"I can place an immediate restriction pending verification."
"Please do."
She confirmed that the restriction was active and gave me a reference number.
Then she asked something unexpected.
"Did you recently appoint an authorized representative?"
"No."
"Someone submitted a change-of-authority request."
"Who?"
"I'm not permitted to disclose that over the telephone."
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
"I understand."
She continued.
"We can arrange an identity verification appointment today. Bring identification and any documents you believe were falsified."
Rebecca offered to drive me.
By nine-thirty, we were sitting inside Northbridge's downtown office.
The woman from fraud investigations introduced herself as Patricia Shaw.
She was in her early fifties, with silver-rimmed glasses and the patient expression of someone who had heard many difficult stories.
She examined the document.
Then she looked at me.
"Mrs. Cole, did you sign this?"
"No."
"Are you certain?"
"Absolutely."
She nodded and made a note.
"We've frozen the transfer. The funds are still in your account."
Relief washed over me so suddenly that I nearly cried.
The money was safe.
For now.
Patricia continued.
"There's another concern."
I straightened.
"What?"
"The request included a copy of your driver's license."
I stared at her.
"My license?"
"A scanned copy."
I thought about the wallet I'd left on our bedroom vanity Thursday evening.
Ethan had borrowed it to retrieve a parking validation ticket from my purse.
Or so he'd said.
Patricia turned her monitor slightly.
"I can't release everything while the investigation is open, but I can show you the document submitted under your identity."
On the screen was my license.
Beside it was a photograph of me.
Not my license photograph.
A photograph taken inside our apartment.
I was sitting at the dining table, wearing my blue sweater.
I remembered the moment.
Thursday night.
Daniel had taken a photograph during dinner.
He'd said he wanted one of all of us.
But this image had been cropped.
Only I remained.
And beneath it was another document.
A declaration supposedly written by me.
It stated that I had asked Ethan to help manage my investments because I had become unable to make responsible financial decisions.
My mouth went dry.
"I never said any of that."
Patricia's expression softened.
"That's why we need to investigate."
Rebecca leaned forward.
"Who submitted it?"
Patricia hesitated.
"The request was processed through an internal employee account. We're reviewing whether that account was misused."
"Daniel Mercer?" I asked.
She didn't answer directly.
But she didn't look surprised.
When we left the office, I felt as though I'd been walking through someone else's life.
Ethan wasn't simply preparing to leave me.
He was preparing to make it look as though I couldn't be trusted with my own money.
At eleven-thirty, he called.
This time, I answered.
"Where are you?" he demanded.
"Out."
"Madison, your stuff is gone."
"You noticed."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"Exactly what it sounds like."
He exhaled angrily.
"Look, last night got out of hand. Chloe and I had drinks. Nothing happened."
I looked at Rebecca.
She shook her head slowly.
"Then why is she living in an apartment you're paying for?" I asked.
Silence.
Long enough for me to hear traffic outside his car.
"Who told you that?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it matters. You're digging through my private business."
"Your private business is coming out of our joint account."
"Madison, lower your voice."
I hadn't raised it.
He knew that.
But he needed me to doubt myself.
"Don't call me until you're ready to speak respectfully," I said.
I ended the call.
Rebecca drove us back to her townhouse.
By afternoon, Ethan had sent seventeen messages.
Some angry.
Some apologetic.
One claimed Chloe was merely renting the apartment temporarily.
Another said the lease was a business arrangement.
They couldn't all be true.
At four, I received an email from Patricia.
Northbridge had found the internal record associated with the transfer.
It contained an attachment that hadn't appeared in my original financial portal.
A memorandum.
The subject line was:
PROJECT SECOND START — PRIVATE CLIENT TRANSITION.
I opened it.
The first paragraph described how Harbor Crest Holdings would receive funds from my account.
The second explained that the money would be used as startup capital for a private investment venture.
The third contained a sentence that made me stop breathing.
Successful transfer will enable E. Cole to complete the planned separation without financial dependency on M. Cole.
I read it again.
Ethan had been planning to leave.
But he didn't want to leave empty-handed.
Below that sentence was a proposed ownership table.
Ethan Cole: 60%.
Daniel Mercer: 25%.
Chloe Bennett: 15%.
I stared at Chloe's name.
She wasn't simply another woman in a nightclub.
She was part of the business.
And then I noticed a handwritten annotation scanned into the bottom of the memorandum.
Do not execute until M.C. signs the household release.
My stomach dropped.
Because two weeks earlier, Ethan had asked me to sign a document.
He'd called it a routine update to our household insurance.
I had refused because I wanted to read it first.
He'd been furious.
Now I understood why.
But another question frightened me more.
If Chloe owned fifteen percent of the company, what exactly had she contributed?
I scrolled to the final attachment.
There was a photograph of a dark blue folder.
Across its cover, someone had written:
MADISON COLE — ORIGINAL TRUST RECORDS.
May you like
Underneath was a handwritten note.
Chloe has the originals.
