Chapter 3: The Woman Who Knew Too Much
I read the message four times.
Someone who knows what your husband has been doing with your money.
Downstairs, a burst of laughter rose from the dining room.
I could hear Charlene's voice above everyone else's.
"Spencer has always been such a generous boy. He gets that from me.""
I closed my eyes.
Then I typed another message.
*Tell me who you are.*
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Finally, the reply came.
*My name is Denise. I used to work in Spencer's finance department. We need to talk before Monday.*
I sat very still.
Spencer worked for a logistics company called Northbridge Distribution. His promotion had come with additional authority over regional expenses, vendor payments, and several operating accounts.
He had mentioned Denise once.
A woman in accounting who supposedly made his life difficult.
"She's obsessed with paperwork," he'd complained one evening.
I remembered his exact words.
"She thinks every little expense needs three signatures.""
At the time, I'd laughed.
Now I stared at the phone.
*Why are you contacting me?*
Her response was immediate.
*Because your husband used your address, your household information, and possibly your financial records in something that has nothing to do with his job.*
My stomach tightened.
*What did he do?*
*I can't explain this over text. Do not confront him yet.*
I glanced toward the bedroom door.
Footsteps moved along the hallway.
Then Spencer knocked.
"Opal?""
I locked my phone.
"What?""
"Can I come in?""
"No.""
A pause.
"Come on. We need to talk.""
I stood and approached the door but didn't unlock it.
"About what?""
"About tonight.""
I almost laughed.
"Your mother hitting me?""
He sighed.
"She lost her temper.""
"She slapped me.""
"I know.""
"Then why are you standing outside my bedroom asking me to calm down?""
His voice hardened.
"Because there are twenty people downstairs, and you're making this impossible.""
I rested my forehead against the door.
"Spencer, I am bleeding.""
He went silent.
I touched my lip.
The slap had caught the inside of my mouth against my teeth. A tiny spot of blood had appeared on my finger.
When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.
"Look, Mom didn't mean to hurt you.""
"Did she mean to hit me?""
"That's not what I'm saying.""
"Then what are you saying?""
He exhaled.
"Can we just get through tonight? I'll talk to her tomorrow.""
I stared at the door.
"You've been promising to talk to her tomorrow for three years.""
"That's unfair.""
"Is it?""
"Opal, please. Just come downstairs. Everyone's asking where you are.""
"Tell them I'm not feeling well.""
"Don't do this.""
I stepped away from the door.
"Goodnight, Spencer.""
He stood outside for another few seconds.
Then his footsteps retreated.
I returned to the bed and picked up my phone.
There was another message.
*Are you alone?*
I typed yes.
*Good. I can send you something. But promise me you won't delete it or forward it to Spencer.*
I hesitated.
Then I replied.
*Send it.*
A minute later, an email arrived.
The subject line read:
*NORTHBRIDGE — PERSONAL GUARANTEE*
I opened the attachment.
The first page contained my name.
My full legal name.
My home address.
My date of birth.
And a signature that looked remarkably similar to mine.
I stopped breathing.
The document was a personal guarantee connected to a business credit facility.
The amount was $185,000.
I read the figure again.
One hundred and eighty-five thousand dollars.
My signature appeared at the bottom of the page.
But I had never signed it.
I knew that with absolute certainty.
I had never agreed to guarantee a business loan for Spencer's employer, his department, or anyone else.
My hands began to shake.
I scrolled down.
The document listed Spencer as the authorized representative.
Under the section marked marital and residential information, our house was identified as the primary residence.
I stared at the screen.
Then I heard the bedroom door handle turn.
I quickly closed the laptop.
"Opal?""
Spencer's voice sounded different now.
Less irritated.
More cautious.
"Open the door.""
I didn't move.
"What?""
"I need to ask you something.""
"Ask.""
"Have you been looking through my paperwork?""
My heart began beating faster.
I looked at the black folder on the dresser.
"Why?""
He tried the handle again.
"Because some documents are missing.""
I swallowed.
"What documents?""
"Business documents.""
"Maybe you should check your office.""
A long silence followed.
Then he said something that made my blood run cold.
"Did Denise contact you?""
I stared at the door.
I hadn't mentioned Denise.
Not once.
"Who?""
"Don't play games with me, Opal.""
I stepped backward.
"Why would Denise contact me?""
He didn't answer immediately.
Then his voice changed.
"Because she's been causing problems at work. She's been making accusations, and I don't want you getting dragged into something you don't understand.""
I looked at my phone.
The email was still open.
The forged guarantee was still sitting in my inbox.
"Spencer," I said carefully, "what exactly is happening at your company?""
He gave a short, humorless laugh.
"Nothing that concerns you.""
"Then why is my name on a $185,000 personal guarantee?""
Silence.
Complete silence.
For several seconds, I could hear only the faint hum of the air conditioner.
Then he said, very slowly:
"Where did you see that?""
I felt my fingers tighten around the phone.
"Answer the question.""
He tried the handle again.
"Open the door, Opal.""
"No.""
"That's not a document you should be looking at.""
"Why not?""
"Because you don't understand the agreement.""
"Then explain it.""
He lowered his voice.
"Mom and I were going to tell you tomorrow.""
I stared at the door.
"Your mother?""
He stopped speaking.
That single word had slipped out before he could catch it.
I walked toward the dresser and opened the black folder.
Inside were the mortgage statements and the payment records I'd been collecting for months.
Now I understood why Spencer had been so interested in my financial information.
Why he'd asked me to send him copies of my tax returns.
Why he'd insisted that we consolidate certain household records.
And why he'd become unusually affectionate whenever I questioned a bank transaction.
I had thought he was careless with money.
I had thought his mother was simply entitled.
I had thought Vanessa was taking advantage of my generosity.
But perhaps all three of them were working toward something much bigger.
My phone vibrated.
Denise had sent another message.
*I saw the original paperwork. Your signature was copied from another document. And Opal, there's something else you need to know.*
I typed:
*What?*
Her answer came in two parts.
*The guarantee wasn't created for Spencer's promotion.*
Then:
*It was created to protect a company owned by your mother-in-law.*
I stared at the screen.
Downstairs, someone called Spencer's name.
He ignored them.
Instead, he knocked on my bedroom door again.
"Opal, open this door. We need to discuss the Mercer family business.""
My eyes moved to the final page of the attachment.
There, beneath the guarantee amount, was the name of the company.
*CHARLENE MERCER HOLDINGS LLC.*
And listed beside it was the date the agreement had supposedly been signed.
A date I remembered very clearly.
Because on that exact day, I had been sitting beside my father in a hospital room, holding his hand while he took his final breath.
I had not been anywhere near a bank.
May you like
I had not signed anything.
And Spencer knew it.
