PART 3 — THE WOMAN IN THE BANK PHOTO
Maybe Ashley hadn’t accidentally walked into my salon at all.
Maybe every Thursday at two had been planned from the beginning.
I called Patrice immediately.
She answered on the first ring.
“You saw it.”
“Yes.”
“Do not call Ashley.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
That was a lie.
“Carol.”
“I know.”
“Say it.”
“I will not call Ashley.”
“Good.”
I stared at the photo again.
Six years ago.
Ashley looked younger, but there was no mistaking her.
Same eyes.
Same nose.
Same tilt of the chin.
She had used my identification to open a safe-deposit box in my name the day after Raymond’s funeral.
And for the past two years, she had been sitting in my salon chair pretending she had only just met Dale.
My skin crawled.
“What do we do?”
Patrice’s voice became sharper.
“We find out who she really is.”
“I know who she is.”
“No.”
I heard papers moving on her end.
“You know the version she gave you.”
That landed hard.
“I’m running every document we have.”
“Can you do that?”
“With the information she voluntarily provided in connection with the messages and statement? Enough to verify certain details.”
“And?”
“Her address checks out.”
“The condo?”
“Yes.”
“Name?”
“Ashley Renee Parker.”
“That’s what she told me.”
“Current name, yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Current?”
Silence.
“Patrice.”
“She changed it.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
“What was it before?”
More silence.
Then:
“Ashley Renee Mercer.”
I sat down.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Mercer?”
“Yes.”
My hand covered my mouth.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Carol.”
“Dale doesn’t have a daughter named Ashley.”
“I didn’t say she was his daughter.”
My heart pounded.
“Then what?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I began searching through twenty-six years of memory.
Mercer family reunions.
Christmas dinners.
Funerals.
Weddings.
There had never been an Ashley.
“Raymond?”
Patrice went quiet.
My blood ran cold.
“Patrice.”
“I found an old obituary.”
“For Raymond?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“It lists one child.”
“Emily.”
“No.”
I froze.
“What?”
“The obituary lists two daughters.”
I stood.
“No.”
“Emily Mercer and Ashley Mercer.”
The kitchen disappeared around me.
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because I would remember.”
“Would you?”
“Yes!”
Then I stopped.
Raymond and his first wife divorced when the children were young.
Dale rarely talked about the first wife.
I remembered a little girl at one family gathering.
Maybe nine.
Maybe ten.
Dark hair.
Quiet.
Then nothing.
“Carol?”
“I remember her.”
My voice sounded far away.
“Barely.”
“Then Ashley is Raymond’s daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Which means she’s Dale’s niece.”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
My husband’s girlfriend was his niece.
The thought was so grotesque my stomach turned.
“No.”
Patrice interrupted quickly.
“Don’t jump there.”
“What?”
“I don’t think they’re actually having an affair.”
I opened my eyes.
“What are you talking about?”
“Think.”
I couldn’t.
Patrice continued.
“If Ashley is Raymond’s daughter, why would she pretend to be Dale’s girlfriend?”
“To destroy my marriage?”
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
“Or maybe because Dale needed you to believe she was.”
Silence.
Every Thursday.
Every confession.
Every outrageous detail.
The condo.
The ring.
The boat.
The debt.
The forged signatures.
What if some of it was true…
and some of it was bait?
“What would be the point?”
“To control what you discovered.”
My skin prickled.
Patrice continued.
“Carol, Ashley told you about accounts. She told you about the notarization. She brought Dale into your salon.”
“She led him into a trap.”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“Maybe she wasn’t working for him.”
I stared at the photo.
“Then who was she working for?”
Patrice exhaled.
“Possibly herself.”
I thought about Raymond.
His death.
The business.
The shares Dale said disappeared.
The bank box opened the day after his funeral.
“Ashley thinks Dale stole from Raymond’s estate.”
“That would explain motive.”
“And she’s been feeding me information.”
“Yes.”
“To use me?”
“Possibly.”
“Why not come to me directly?”
“Because maybe she didn’t trust you.”
That hurt.
But it made sense.
To Ashley, I was Dale’s wife.
Part of the family that benefited.
Maybe she assumed I knew.
I remembered all the things she had said about me.
“She laughed at me.”
“Maybe because she wanted you angry.”
“She called me pathetic.”
“Maybe because she wanted you to stop protecting Dale.”
The room went quiet.
Then I remembered something.
The ring photo.
Two carats.
“He proposed to her.”
“Did he?”
“I saw the ring.”
“You saw a photo.”
My stomach dropped.
I hadn’t seen it on her finger.
Not once.
“He leased her the Lexus.”
“Maybe because it’s a company vehicle she had access to through Raymond’s estate.”
“The condo?”
“Could belong to the estate.”
Everything shifted.
I sat down again.
“Patrice.”
“Yes?”
“What if almost everything she told me was designed to make me investigate?”
“That thought has crossed my mind.”
“Then she knew I was Dale’s wife from the first appointment.”
“Probably.”
“She chose my salon.”
“Likely.”
“She knew I was a notary.”
“Almost certainly.”
I felt violated in a way I hadn’t expected.
Not by Dale.
By her.
For months I thought I was the one quietly gathering information.
Maybe I had been the target the entire time.
“Where is Ashley now?”
“With police finishing her statement.”
“Does she know we found the bank photo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do not tell her.”
Patrice paused.
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear what she says before she knows what we know.”
That afternoon, Ashley texted me.
MISS C, CAN WE TALK?
I didn’t answer.
Another message.
PLEASE.
Then:
I KNOW YOU FOUND OUT ABOUT RAYMOND.
My stomach tightened.
I called Patrice.
“She knows.”
“Then let her talk.”
“You just told me not to call.”
“I changed my mind.”
“You do that often?”
“Only when new facts arrive.”
I almost smiled.
“Speakerphone?”
“Yes.”
I called Ashley.
She answered immediately.
“Miss C.”
Her voice was shaking.
“Don’t call me that.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
“Start talking.”
She inhaled.
“My name really is Ashley.”
“I know.”
“My father was Raymond.”
“I know.”
“I should have told you.”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t know if you were part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“The theft.”
There it was.
“What did Dale steal?”
“Everything he could.”
“Be specific.”
“My father’s company shares.”
“The roofing business.”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“Property?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not good enough.”
“I really don’t know.”
Her voice cracked.
“My dad died thinking he still owned forty percent of Mercer Roofing.”
I looked at Patrice.
She wrote something down.
“Forty percent?”
“Yes.”
“Dale told me Raymond’s shares reverted.”
“He lied.”
I felt anger rise.
“What happened after Raymond died?”
“A week before his funeral, Dale came to our house.”
“Our?”
“My mom’s.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed documents for probate.”
“And?”
“My mom gave him a folder.”
“What was in it?”
“Stock certificates. Partnership papers. Insurance. Everything.”
My chest tightened.
“And then?”
“He told us the company was insolvent.”
“Was it?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because my dad kept copies.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
“Where?”
“A safe-deposit box.”
The box.
“In my name?”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“Why is the box in my name?”
Ashley began crying.
“Because Dad didn’t trust Dale.”
“That doesn’t answer me.”
“He trusted you.”
I couldn’t speak.
“What?”
“My dad said if anything happened to him, you were the one person Dale couldn’t completely control.”
The words hurt.
Because for twenty-six years, I had believed the opposite.
“I never knew.”
“I know.”
“Then why open it using my ID?”
“My dad left instructions.”
“You committed identity fraud because of instructions?”
“I was twenty-two and scared.”
“That doesn’t make it legal.”
“I know.”
“What were the instructions?”
“If Dad died, I was supposed to open the box under your name and put the original papers there.”
“Why not your name?”
“Because Dale knew my accounts.”
“Why mine?”
“Because he never paid attention to you.”
Silence.
That sentence cut deeper than I expected.
“He underestimated you,” Ashley said.
“He still does.”
I looked at Patrice.
She nodded slightly.
“What happened six years ago?”
“I opened the box.”
“With my driver’s license.”
“A copy.”
“Where did you get it?”
“From Dad.”
I felt sick.
Raymond had copied my ID without telling me.
Another person making decisions for me because they believed they were protecting me.
I was starting to understand how dangerous that word could be.
“What did you put in the box?”
“The original ownership records.”
“And?”
“A letter from Dad.”
“To whom?”
“You.”
My breath stopped.
“There is a letter for me?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Because when Dad died, Dale came to Mom’s house and told us you had signed documents supporting his ownership.”
“What documents?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at Patrice.
Her face hardened.
Ashley continued.
“I thought you helped him.”
“So you hated me.”
“Yes.”
“At first.”
“At first?”
“Then I started watching.”
My skin prickled.
“Watching what?”
“You.”
“For six years?”
“Not constantly.”
Her voice dropped.
“I found your Facebook. I saw you working at the salon. I saw you taking a second job.”
“You followed me?”
“No. Not like that.”
“Then what?”
“I watched enough to realize something didn’t make sense.”
“What?”
“If you were helping Dale hide millions, why were you cleaning offices?”
I closed my eyes.
“So two years ago you booked an appointment.”
“Yes.”
“And pretended you were his girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To see what you knew.”
“And when you realized I knew nothing?”
“I didn’t know what to do.”
“So you kept lying.”
“Yes.”
“You humiliated me for months.”
“I know.”
“You described sleeping with my husband.”
“I know.”
“Were you?”
“No.”
The answer came instantly.
My stomach twisted with relief and disgust.
“Did Dale know you were telling me this?”
“No.”
“Does Dale think you’re his girlfriend?”
“No.”
“What does he think you are?”
She was silent.
“Ashley.”
“He thinks I’m helping him.”
“With what?”
“The estate.”
I stared.
“He knows who you are.”
“Of course.”
“Then why was he driving you around?”
“Because I told him I wanted my share quietly.”
“Why would he trust you?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Then?”
“I told him I was broke and willing to sign away Raymond’s claims if he paid me.”
Patrice leaned closer to the phone.
“Did you actually sign anything?”
“No.”
“Did you accept money?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“About forty thousand.”
Patrice wrote faster.
“What for?”
“Consulting payments.”
“From Blue Heron?”
“Yes.”
My heartbeat changed.
“So Blue Heron isn’t his hidden boat account.”
“No.”
“What is it?”
Ashley hesitated.
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Ashley.”
“I think it’s where he moves money before he moves it somewhere else.”
That sounded worse.
“And the ring?”
“Fake story.”
“The condo?”
“Real.”
“Yours?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
“My dad’s.”
I froze.
“What?”
“Raymond bought it before he died.”
“Why?”
“Investment.”
“And Dale took it.”
“Yes.”
“The Lexus?”
“Company vehicle.”
“Yes.”
“The boat?”
“Real.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
My anger began to sharpen.
“You fed me enough truth to make the lies believable.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I needed you angry.”
There it was.
I almost hung up.
Instead:
“You manipulated me.”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest now.”
“I should have been sooner.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
Then she said:
“There is something else.”
I laughed bitterly.
“There always is.”
“Dale didn’t come to your salon Friday because of the notarization.”
I looked at Patrice.
“What?”
“The documents were real.”
“I know.”
“But he didn’t need a random notary.”
“Then why come?”
Ashley swallowed.
“Because he wanted to see whether you knew.”
Cold ran through me.
“Explain.”
“He found out someone had accessed the old storage unit.”
“When?”
“Thursday night.”
“The night before?”
“Yes.”
“But I didn’t even know about it then.”
“I know.”
“Who accessed it?”
“My mom.”
My head spun.
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because she finally agreed to give me the records.”
“Then why would Dale suspect me?”
“He didn’t.”
My skin went cold.
“Who did he suspect?”
“Me.”
Everything clicked.
He hadn’t walked into my salon to use me.
He had walked in to watch Ashley.
He wanted to see how she reacted around me.
“He was testing you.”
“Yes.”
“And when he saw me?”
“He realized I had told you.”
“Because you froze?”
“Probably.”
I remembered his face.
The calculation.
How many lies could survive.
Not just with me.
With Ashley too.
“He knew.”
“Yes.”
“Then why leave the folder?”
“Panic.”
“Or bait.”
Ashley went silent.
Patrice and I looked at each other.
“What do you mean?” Ashley asked.
“What if Dale wanted us to have those documents?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because they prove fraud.”
“Do they?”
Silence.
I continued.
“What if the signatures are fake but the documents themselves are not filed?”
Ashley didn’t answer.
Patrice whispered:
“Carol.”
I looked at her.
She was already checking something on her laptop.
“What?”
“The guaranty.”
“Yes?”
“No recording stamp.”
“What does that mean?”
“It may never have been filed.”
My stomach dropped.
“The home equity loan?”
She scanned the photo.
“Same issue.”
“And the ownership transfer?”
“Could be draft paperwork.”
I stared.
Dale may have deliberately handed us a folder full of terrifying but unfiled documents.
Why?
To make us focus on the wrong thing.
“What was he hiding?”
Patrice said it at the same time I thought it.
“The storage unit.”
I turned back to the phone.
“Ashley.”
“Yes?”
“Why did your mother go into that unit Thursday?”
“She was moving records.”
“Where?”
“The safe-deposit box.”
“What records?”
Silence.
“Ashley.”
“The originals.”
My heart stopped.
“What originals?”
“My father’s ownership documents.”
“Then the copies in the unit—”
“Copies.”
“Where are the originals now?”
Another pause.
“They should be in the bank box.”
“Should?”
“I haven’t checked.”
“You have the key.”
“Yes.”
“Why haven’t you checked?”
“Because after Dale showed up at the storage place, I got scared.”
Patrice said:
“We need legal access.”
I nodded.
Then Ashley whispered:
“There is one document you need to see before Dale gets it.”
“What?”
“My father’s handwritten ledger.”
“What is in it?”
“Payments.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t know everyone.”
“Do you know anyone?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
She was quiet.
Then:
“Your daughter.”
My whole body went still.
Patrice stopped writing.
“What did you say?”
“I’m sorry.”
I gripped the phone.
“My daughter, Megan?”
“Yes.”
“That is impossible.”
“I saw her name.”
“No.”
“Carol—”
“Megan was nineteen when Raymond died.”
“I know.”
“She was in college.”
“I know.”
“She had nothing to do with the company.”
“I don’t know why her name is there.”
“How much?”
Silence.
“Ashley, how much?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand.”
I couldn’t breathe.
“Paid when?”
“The month before Raymond died.”
“From whom?”
“Raymond.”
That made even less sense.
“My brother-in-law paid my nineteen-year-old daughter a quarter-million dollars?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
My hands shook.
Megan was thirty now.
Married.
Two children.
She lived in Atlanta and worked in medical billing.
She had never once mentioned money from Raymond.
“Do you have a photo?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“I read the ledger years ago.”
“Could you be wrong?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because next to her name, Dad wrote one sentence.”
“What sentence?”
Ashley inhaled.
“Keep her quiet until Carol is ready.”
The kitchen went silent.
I felt something inside me shift.
This was no longer only Dale.
No longer only Raymond’s estate.
My daughter was inside it.
And somebody had paid her to stay quiet.
“Patrice.”
“I heard.”
I looked at the time.
10:14 a.m.
“Megan is working.”
“Do not call her yet.”
I laughed without humor.
“You lawyers love saying that.”
“Because clients love ruining evidence.”
“She’s my daughter.”
“Which is exactly why you need to think before you confront her.”
I hated that she was right.
At 11:03, Patrice received confirmation that a court order preserving the safe-deposit box contents was being sought.
At 11:47, the forensic accountant called.
We learned Blue Heron had moved nearly $3.8 million over six years.
Not all of it belonged to Mercer Roofing.
Some came from real estate.
Some from insurance settlements.
Some from accounts tied to Raymond’s estate.
Then he found a recurring recipient.
MJM Consulting.
MJM.
Megan Jean Mercer.
My daughter’s initials.
I stared.
“How much?”
Patrice asked.
The accountant answered through speakerphone.
“Total over six years? Just over six hundred thousand.”
My knees weakened.
No.
“No.”
Patrice looked at me.
“Carol.”
“She doesn’t have six hundred thousand dollars.”
“Maybe she spent it.”
“No.”
“She could have accounts you don’t know about.”
“No.”
I knew how that sounded.
The same certainty I once had about my husband.
I stopped.
Maybe I didn’t know anyone as well as I thought.
“What were the payments labeled?”
“Consulting.”
“For what?”
“Data management.”
Megan was good with computers.
Always had been.
“What kind of data?”
“We don’t know yet.”
Then the accountant said:
“There is another connection.”
“What?”
“MJM made payments out.”
“To where?”
“First Georgia Community Bank.”
My heart started pounding.
“The safe-deposit bank.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“One recurring payee.”
“Who?”
He gave us a name.
I didn’t recognize it.
Patrice did.
Her face changed.
“What?”
I asked.
She looked at me.
“He’s a private investigator.”
Silence.
“Megan hired an investigator?”
“For six years.”
“To investigate whom?”
The accountant said:
“The invoices are coded.”
“Can you decode them?”
“Maybe.”
“Try.”
At 1:26 p.m., my phone rang.
Megan.
I stared at her name.
Patrice looked at me.
“Answer normally.”
I did.
“Hey, baby.”
My voice sounded almost convincing.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Are you okay?”
My skin prickled.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
There was a pause.
“I heard you and Dad are having problems.”
“Who told you?”
“Dad.”
Of course.
“When?”
“This morning.”
“What did he say?”
“That you’re confused.”
My stomach dropped.
Patrice’s eyes sharpened.
“Confused how?”
“He said you’ve been accusing him of hiding money.”
I laughed softly.
“What else?”
“He said some woman at your salon is filling your head with things.”
Ashley.
“What did you tell him?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
Then Megan asked:
“Mom, did you go to the bank?”
I stopped breathing.
“What bank?”
Silence.
“Never mind.”
“No.”
I sat straighter.
“Which bank, Megan?”
“Mom.”
“Which bank?”
She whispered:
“First Georgia.”
Patrice immediately began writing.
“How do you know about that bank?”
Silence.
“Megan.”
Her voice changed.
“Mom, please don’t open that box.”
My heart hammered.
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
“What is inside?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“You’ve had six years.”
Silence.
Then:
“I was trying to protect you.”
There it was again.
Protect.
The most dangerous word in my family.
“From what?”
“Dad.”
“What did he do?”
“No.”
“Megan.”
“I can’t do this on the phone.”
“Then come here.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he might be watching.”
The room went cold.
“Who?”
“Dad.”
I looked toward my windows.
Patrice stood and closed the blinds.
“Megan, where are you?”
“At work.”
“Are you safe?”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me what is in the box.”
She began crying.
“Mom, I should have told you years ago.”
“Told me what?”
“Uncle Raymond found something.”
“What?”
“About Dad.”
“What about him?”
“It wasn’t just money.”
My skin crawled.
“What was it?”
“Insurance.”
“What insurance?”
“Life insurance.”
I stopped breathing.
“On whom?”
“Uncle Raymond.”
That made sense.
Business partners often insure one another.
Then Megan continued:
“And you.”
I froze.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
Silence.
“How much, Megan?”
“Four million.”
My hand went numb.
“Dale has a four-million-dollar life insurance policy on me?”
“No.”
“What do you mean no?”
“Not Dale.”
“Then who?”
Megan whispered:
“Blue Heron.”
The entire room went silent.
I looked at Patrice.
Her face had gone pale.
“Who is the beneficiary?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who signed the policy?”
“That is why Uncle Raymond got scared.”
My heartbeat pounded in my ears.
“Who signed it?”
“Your signature is on it.”
I closed my eyes.
Another forged signature.
“Six years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Why pay you?”
“Uncle Raymond wanted me to make digital copies of everything.”
“You were nineteen.”
“I was the only person Dad didn’t think knew anything.”
That was true.
Megan had always been quiet around him.
“What did Raymond find?”
“Policies. Transfers. A list of names.”
“What names?”
“I don’t know all of them.”
“Tell me what you know.”
“I copied the files.”
“Where are they?”
“In the safe-deposit box.”
My heart raced.
“What else?”
She hesitated.
Then said:
“There was a document called Project Widow.”
The words did not register at first.
“What?”
“Project Widow.”
Patrice slowly sat down.
“What was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You copied it.”
“It was encrypted.”
“By whom?”
“Dad.”
My stomach dropped.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“His initials were in the file metadata.”
I could barely breathe.
“What did Raymond think it meant?”
“He never told me.”
“When did Raymond die?”
“You know when.”
“One month after paying you.”
“Yes.”
Silence.
“Car accident.”
“Yes.”
My skin went cold.
I suddenly remembered Dale telling me Raymond had fallen asleep at the wheel.
Closed casket.
Rainy funeral.
Everybody grieving.
No questions.
“Megan.”
“Yes?”
“Did Uncle Raymond think his death was in danger?”
She began crying harder.
“He told me if anything happened to him, I was supposed to keep quiet until you found out on your own.”
I felt sick.
“Why on earth would he say that?”
“Because he thought if Dad knew I had the files, he’d come after me.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
Patrice mouthed:
Keep her talking.
I forced myself.
“Did Dale ever threaten you?”
“No.”
“Did he know Raymond paid you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why have you been taking money from Blue Heron?”
Megan went silent.
I closed my eyes.
“We found the payments.”
“I can explain.”
“Then explain.”
“The money isn’t mine.”
“What?”
“I move it.”
“To where?”
“Different accounts.”
“For who?”
“People Uncle Raymond listed.”
“Why?”
“Because they were owed.”
“Owed what?”
“Profit shares.”
I stared.
“How many people?”
“Twelve.”
“Employees?”
“Mostly.”
“So Blue Heron was holding stolen profit distributions?”
“I think so.”
“And you have been secretly returning money?”
“Yes.”
“Why not go to police?”
“Because I didn’t understand enough.”
“You understood enough to move six hundred thousand dollars.”
“I was scared.”
“For six years?”
“Yes.”
That answer sounded painfully human.
Then she whispered:
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Dad knows the box exists.”
“I know.”
“No.”
Her voice sharpened.
“He knows what’s inside.”
My blood ran cold.
“How?”
“He called me last night.”
Patrice leaned closer.
“What did he say?”
“He said I had until tonight to get the files.”
“Or?”
Silence.
“Megan.”
“He said if I didn’t, he would tell everyone I stole the six hundred thousand.”
I closed my eyes.
Blackmail.
“He knows you moved the money.”
“Yes.”
“Does he know you have evidence?”
“Yes.”
“Then do not go near that bank.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
Another pause.
Then Megan whispered:
“Mom, there’s one more thing.”
I almost laughed.
I was starting to hate those words.
“What?”
“The woman.”
“What woman?”
“Ashley.”
I looked at Patrice.
“What about her?”
“She isn’t who she says she is.”
“I know she’s Raymond’s daughter.”
Silence.
Megan whispered:
“No.”
My heartbeat changed.
“What do you mean?”
“Ashley Mercer died.”
Everything stopped.
“What?”
“Six years ago.”
I stood.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It was in Raymond’s files.”
“What are you saying?”
“Uncle Raymond’s daughter Ashley died in a boating accident when she was twenty-one.”
My skin went ice cold.
Then who had been sitting in my salon?
Who had used my ID at the bank?
Who had pretended to be Dale’s niece?
Who had spent two years feeding me secrets?
I grabbed the edge of the table.
“Megan.”
“Yes?”
“If Ashley Mercer is dead…”
My voice barely worked.
“…who is the woman calling herself Ashley?”
Megan was silent for so long I thought the call had dropped.
Then she whispered:
“That is exactly what Uncle Raymond was trying to find out before he died.”
END OF PART 3 — CONTINUED IN PART 4
One Comment on “PART 3: My husband’s girlfriend sits in my salon chair every Thursday at two, tips me twenty dollars, and tells me everything he’s planning. She has no idea whose wife is holding the scissors. This week, with foils in her hair, she told me exactly what he’s putting in my name before he files for divorce.”