Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN MY HUSBAND FORBID ME TO CALL
“Your brother's name is buried in something I've been investigating for eighteen months.”
Octavia Voss said those words so calmly that, for a moment, I forgot about the snow covering my windshield.
“What are you talking about?”
“Not over the telephone, Sloane. Where are you?”
“Outside my parents' house.”
“Did they let you inside?”
I looked at the Christmas lights glowing through their dining room windows.
“They told me to go back to Dashiell.”
There was a long silence.
Then Octavia asked, “Did my son hurt you?”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Yes.”
“Is Maisie injured?”
“No. She's frightened.”
“Then listen to me carefully. I want you to take her to Westport Medical Center. Have someone examine you. Tell them exactly what happened. Don't minimize anything to protect my son.”
I glanced toward the back seat.
Maisie had fallen asleep clutching her little stuffed rabbit.
“Dashiell will find us.”
“He may try,” Octavia replied. “But you are not going back to that house tonight.”
For the first time in years, someone sounded more concerned about my safety than my husband's reputation.
I followed her instructions.
At the hospital, a nurse named Patricia examined my swollen cheek and asked questions I had spent years avoiding.
Had this happened before?
Did my husband control our finances?
Was I afraid to return home?
I answered honestly.
Patricia documented my injuries, offered information about protective orders, and connected me with a domestic violence advocate.
Octavia arrived shortly afterward.
She was sixty-eight, with silver hair arranged in a neat twist and a camel-colored wool coat that looked expensive without being flashy.
She entered the examination room carrying a small paper bag.
Inside were crackers, juice boxes, and a children's picture book.
“For Maisie,” she explained.
Then she looked at my face.
Her expression changed.
“Oh, Sloane.”
I expected questions about what I had done to upset her son.
Instead, she gently touched my shoulder.
“I am so sorry I wasn't there sooner.”
Something inside me broke.
I began crying so hard that I couldn't speak.
Octavia waited.
When I finally stopped, she pulled up a chair.
“Dashiell told you I abandoned him, didn't he?”
I nodded.
“He said you tried to take his company.”
Octavia gave a tired smile.
“Voss Development was founded by his father and me. I still own twenty-four percent of the company. But three years ago, Dashiell pushed me off the board after I questioned how he was spending money allocated to one of our redevelopment projects.”
“What project?”
“Eastbank.”
I recognized the name.
Eastbank was a struggling residential neighborhood in Bridgeport. Dashiell had repeatedly described its redevelopment as his greatest charitable achievement.
He claimed his company was helping working-class families move into safer housing.
Octavia opened a slim leather folder.
“Eighteen months ago, several former Eastbank residents contacted me. They claimed they'd never received relocation assistance the company reported paying them.”
“That doesn't make sense.”
“It didn't make sense to me either.”
She turned a page.
There were bank summaries, reimbursement requests, and a spreadsheet filled with names.
One entry caught my attention.
Whitmore Family Outreach — $3,000 monthly.
My stomach tightened.
“That's my parents.”
“I know.”
“They aren't running any outreach organization.”
Octavia studied my face.
“Are you certain?”
“My mother hasn't worked outside the home in twenty years. Dad retired from banking. Neither of them has ever mentioned anything like this.”
“Yet their names appear on invoices submitted against a restricted relocation budget.”
I stared at the paper.
For four years, my parents had called Dashiell generous.
They had described his payments as assistance during a difficult financial period.
But those payments apparently weren't coming from his personal money.
They were being charged to funds intended for displaced families.
“Does Preston know?”
“Your brother signed off on several payment requests.”
I felt physically sick.
Preston had spent years telling me to appreciate my husband.
Now I understood why he had defended Dashiell so aggressively.
But Octavia wasn't finished.
“There is something else.”
She removed a photocopied document.
Across the top were the words:
EASTBANK RESIDENT RELOCATION CERTIFICATION.
At the bottom was my full name.
Sloane Whitmore Voss.
Beside it was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
I frowned.
“I've never seen this.”
“Look at the date.”
March 14.
Three years earlier.
I knew that date better than my own birthday.
It was the day Maisie was born.
I looked at Octavia.
“That's impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I was in the hospital for twenty-three hours that day. I had an emergency delivery.”
Octavia leaned forward.
“Sloane, according to this document, you personally witnessed nineteen Eastbank families accept relocation payments that morning.”
My hands began trembling.
“I didn't.”
“I believe you.”
I looked again at the signature.
Whoever had written it knew the exact way I curved the final letter of my name.
And suddenly I remembered something.
My mother had insisted on keeping every handwritten thank-you card from my wedding.
Every single one.
I whispered, “Octavia, somebody didn't just steal my signature.”
She waited.
“Somebody had been practicing it.”
Then Octavia turned the page.
May you like
And I saw a second signature.
My father's.
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