Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW MY MOTHER SOLD ME FOR $1.8 MILLIONCatherine arrived eleven minutes early.
Of course she did.
She had always been punctual.
When I was a child, Dad used to joke that Catherine Cole could probably invoice God for wasting five minutes.
She entered the café wearing a gray suit and carrying the same burgundy leather briefcase I remembered from childhood.
For fourteen years, that briefcase had sat on our kitchen table during tax meetings.
It had held contracts after Uncle Mateo died.
It had held the papers Dad signed when my mother entered hospice.
Now I wondered how many documents inside it had quietly been copied for Charles Cross.
Catherine saw me and immediately softened her face.
“Sweetheart.”
She hugged me.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
The recording device beneath my blouse felt enormous.
Police were positioned in two vehicles outside.
Detective Monroe sat somewhere behind me disguised as a customer.
Dad was three blocks away because everyone agreed Catherine might recognize him.
She sat.
“Oh, Lena.”
Her eyes studied my healing bruise.
“Look what he's done to you.”
“You believe me?”
“Of course I do.”
The lie came easily.
That hurt more than I expected.
“You don't think I crashed the car?”
“No.”
“Julian says I did.”
“Julian says many things.”
A server brought coffee.
Catherine waited until we were alone.
“Why did you ask to see me?”
I looked down.
Because I needed to appear frightened.
Confused.
Still dependent on the adults who had managed my life.
“I found documents.”
Her hand stopped halfway toward her cup.
“What documents?”
“On Julian’s computer.”
“What kind?”
“About Dad’s company.”
Catherine's expression remained calm.
“Do you still have them?”
There it was.
Not: Are you okay?
Not: What did they say?
Do you still have them?
“I don't know.”
“What do you mean?”
“The flash drive may have been damaged.”
Her shoulders relaxed almost invisibly.
I continued.
“Police have it.”
That tension returned.
“Police?”
“Yes.”
“Lena, corporate records are complicated.”
“So?”
“They could misunderstand drafts as executed documents.”
Almost exactly Charles's argument.
“Did you know about the proxies?”
Her eyes flickered.
“What proxies?”
“The ones with my signature.”
“No.”
“Someone forged it.”
“Then let experts determine that.”
“I thought you were an expert.”
A pause.
“I am.”
“Then help me understand.”
I took a folded page from my bag.
Not evidence.
A police-approved copy.
I slid it across the table.
Catherine looked at it.
Her face did not change.
That itself told me everything.
Someone seeing a forged document involving a woman they loved should react.
Catherine analyzed it.
“I've seen forms like this.”
“Did you create it?”
“No.”
“Julian’s files say CC did.”
Her fingers tightened.
“Many people have those initials.”
“That's true.”
I let silence grow.
Catherine leaned forward.
“Lena, listen carefully. The Cross family is powerful.”
“I know.”
“Your father is angry.”
“I know.”
“Angry men sometimes make situations worse because they need someone punished.”
I nearly laughed.
She was describing Charles.
Instead, I asked:
“What should I do?”
“Protect yourself.”
“How?”
“Stop speaking to police until we understand everything.”
There.
The old Catherine.
The woman whose advice I had trusted since childhood.
If this had happened a week earlier, I might have listened.
“Would that help Julian?”
“It would help you.”
“Would it help Charles?”
A pause.
“Why are you asking about Charles?”
“Because he paid you.”
Her face became completely blank.
I had gone too quickly.
Detective Monroe had warned me not to confront her directly.
But anger won.
“One-point-eight million dollars.”
Catherine placed both hands flat on the table.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Northgate Advisory.”
Her face lost color.
That was the shell company.
I continued.
“Payments every quarter for three years.”
Catherine whispered:
“You shouldn't know that.”
The sentence hung between us.
Not That's false.
Not You're mistaken.
You shouldn't know.
My heart hammered.
“Why?”
She glanced toward the window.
I knew immediately she was considering escape.
“You told them about my trust.”
“I need to go.”
“You gave Julian my signature.”
She stood.
I stayed seated.
“You helped him.”
“Lena—”
“You knew what he was planning.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Do not make accusations you don't understand.”
“Then explain.”
Catherine grabbed her briefcase.
I said the one thing I knew could stop her.
“My mother trusted you.”
She froze.
For the first time, guilt appeared.
Real guilt.
I stood.
“She called you her sister.”
“Don't.”
“You sat beside her hospital bed.”
“Stop.”
“You promised her you'd look after me.”
Catherine turned.
Tears filled her eyes.
“You have no idea what happened after your mother died.”
“Then tell me.”
“Your father was going to lose everything.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“The company was drowning.”
That was new.
“Dad never—”
“Of course he didn't tell you.”
Catherine sat again.
Slowly.
“He had debt. Mateo’s death had already damaged the business. Then your mother's treatment cost more than insurance covered. Gabriel borrowed against almost everything.”
My anger faltered.
“Cross Development approached him?”
“No. Charles approached me.”
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
That shocked me.
Long before Julian.
“He offered to refinance the property.”
“Dad refused?”
“He never knew.”
I stared.
Catherine continued.
“I moved debt through private lenders. Some were connected to Cross entities. I convinced myself I was saving your family.”
“For $1.8 million?”
Her eyes closed.
“That came later.”
“Convenient.”
“I didn't start by taking money.”
“But you ended there.”
She wiped her eyes.
“Charles discovered Mateo’s trust structure. He realized your shares could eventually affect control of the land.”
“So he sent Julian?”
“I don't know exactly when Julian became involved.”
“Don't lie now.”
“I am not.”
“Did Charles tell him to date me?”
“No.”
I watched her.
She looked away.
“Catherine.”
“He encouraged Julian to attend the museum fundraiser where you met.”
My stomach turned.
The museum fundraiser.
The night I thought destiny had arrived wearing a tuxedo.
Julian had spilled sparkling water near me.
We laughed.
He asked about the vintage-car pin on my dress.
He knew.
He knew exactly who I was.
“Our first meeting was arranged.”
“Not arranged.”
“Engineered.”
Catherine said nothing.
I suddenly felt sick.
“What did you give them?”
“Information.”
“What information?”
“Your schedule. Interests. Things Julian could use to start conversation.”
I almost laughed.
“My favorite book?”
She lowered her head.
“Yes.”
“The hiking trail where he ‘coincidentally’ saw me two weeks later?”
“Yes.”
“The restaurant where he sent the chef to make Mom’s favorite dessert?”
Catherine began crying.
“Yes.”
Every romantic story I had treasured became contaminated at once.
Julian hadn't remembered details because he loved me.
He had researched them.
I whispered:
“Did you know he hurt other women?”
“No.”
“Did you know he was hurting me?”
“No.”
“Did you know they planned to call me mentally incompetent?”
She hesitated.
That hesitation answered me.
“Catherine.”
“I saw a draft.”
“When?”
“Two months ago.”
“And you did nothing?”
“I told Charles it had gone too far.”
“You told Charles.”
“I threatened to stop helping.”
“Then why didn't you warn me?”
Her voice rose.
“Because I was already implicated!”
A few customers looked over.
Catherine lowered her voice.
“Do you understand? One confession and I lose my license, my career, everything.”
I stared at her.
“So you chose yourself.”
She looked at me.
“Yes.”
At least that answer was honest.
Then she whispered:
“I thought they were trying to control the company.”
“They were.”
“I didn't know Julian would hit you.”
“But you knew they were trying to take my choices.”
Silence.
“Yes.”
I felt tears but refused to wipe them.
Catherine opened her briefcase.
Detective Monroe shifted behind me.
Catherine removed a small envelope.
“Charles gave me this yesterday.”
“What is it?”
“A new passport.”
Not hers.
Julian’s.
Different name.
Different birth date.
I stared.
“He's in custody.”
“For now.”
“What was this for?”
Catherine looked toward the window.
“If Julian made bail, Charles planned to get him out of the country.”
My heartbeat jumped.
“Where?”
“Private aircraft from a regional airfield.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
I slid the envelope toward myself.
“Why are you giving me this?”
“Because I have spent eleven years telling myself every bad decision was temporary.”
She looked at my face.
“Then I saw what temporary decisions built.”
Behind me, Detective Monroe stood.
Catherine did not seem surprised.
“I assumed police were nearby.”
“You still came?”
She nodded.
“I was tired of running before I even started.”
Detective Monroe approached.
“Catherine Cole?”
“Yes.”
“We need to speak with you.”
“I know.”
She stood and held out her wrists before being asked.
Before Monroe escorted her away, Catherine looked at me.
“I don't expect forgiveness.”
“Good.”
She nodded.
“I am sorry.”
I watched the woman who had been almost family walk toward the door.
Then she stopped.
“One more thing.”
Detective Monroe waited.
Catherine looked at me.
“The forged incapacity proxy wasn't the most dangerous document.”
My stomach tightened.
“What was?”
“A life-insurance policy.”
I stared.
“What life-insurance policy?”
“Julian took it out eight months ago.”
“How much?”
Her answer made even Detective Monroe go still.
“Twenty-five million dollars.”
I could barely speak.
“On me?”
Catherine nodded.
“With Julian Cross listed as primary beneficiary after marriage.”
The garage crash suddenly looked different all over again.
May you like
And when investigators checked the policy application, they found my signature.
Except I had never signed it.
