Chapter 8 - Rebecca Harlan’s WarningRebecca Harlan’s voice was not what I expected.
I thought she would sound dramatic, breathless, eager to punish someone. Instead, she sounded exhausted.
“Claire Morgan?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
Those two words nearly broke me.
Not because she owed me an apology.
Because she was the first person that day to offer one without being forced.
“I should have contacted you earlier,” she said. “I was trying to make sure I had enough proof.”
I sat at the dining room table while Andrew paced near the doorway like a caged animal.
“What do you know?” I asked.
Rebecca took a slow breath.
“My fiancé was Clayton Reeves. Madison Vale’s brother. I ended our engagement because I found out he was helping Madison and Andrew structure private financing for a development project.”
“What development project?”
“A lakeside rental property.”
My eyes closed.
My cottage.
Rebecca continued, “Madison told people Andrew had access to a lake property that could be renovated, refinanced, or sold. Clayton knew investors who were willing to move fast if the ownership questions were handled.”
“Handled,” I repeated.
“I’m sorry.”
Andrew exploded. “That is not what happened.”
Rebecca went silent.
I looked at him. “You don’t get to interrupt.”
His laugh was ugly. “You’re letting a stranger destroy our marriage.”
“No,” I said. “You gave strangers the blueprint.”
Rebecca continued, “I heard your name several times. Madison described you as cautious, but emotionally manageable.”
The phrase hit close to the audio.
Emotionally manageable.
I wondered if they had practiced different ways to describe my trust.
Rebecca’s voice tightened. “I know this is painful, but there is something else. Madison believed Andrew could convince you to sign documents by using his mother.”
Lorraine’s hand flew to her chest.
“Me?”
Andrew said, “Rebecca is lying.”
Rebecca replied, “I recorded the conversation.”
Lorraine stared at her son.
Rebecca went on. “The plan was to say Lorraine needed long-term care support and that Andrew had found a way to restructure finances. They thought you would agree if refusing made you feel cruel.”
The room blurred at the edges.
I looked at Lorraine, expecting denial.
But she was looking at Andrew.
Not at me.
At him.
“Andrew,” she whispered, “what long-term care?”
He rubbed his forehead. “It was one idea.”
“One idea?”
“I needed options.”
“For what?”
He did not answer.
Rebecca did.
“Debt.”
Andrew’s head snapped toward the phone.
Rebecca said, “Clayton told me Andrew had personal debt. Business losses, credit cards, at least one private note. I don’t know the full amount.”
Lorraine’s face slackened.
“My son does not have debt.”
I almost pitied her then.
Almost.
Andrew had lied to both of us, but Lorraine’s tragedy was different. She had built a shrine to her son and was now watching the idol bleed paint.
“How much?” I asked.
Rebecca hesitated. “The number I heard was around four hundred thousand.”
Lorraine made a sound like air leaving a punctured tire.
Andrew shouted, “That is not accurate!”
“Then correct it,” I said.
He looked at me.
Then away.
Four hundred thousand dollars.
I thought of the trips he said clients paid for. The watches he called bonuses. The cash withdrawals he explained as work expenses. The way he had become irritated whenever I suggested budgeting. His offense had not been pride.
It had been fear.
Rebecca continued, “Madison thought the lake project would solve everything. She pushed him. Clayton pushed both of them. I think they planned to move money before anyone could challenge it.”
“And Madison?” I asked. “What did she want?”
Rebecca’s voice hardened for the first time.
“Your life.”
The room went still.
“She wanted the cottage. The house. The version of Andrew that came with your stability. She called you temporary.”
Temporary.
Seven years of marriage.
Temporary.
Lorraine whispered, “Andrew, tell me this isn’t true.”
He snapped, “Mom, stop.”
She flinched.
Not much.
But enough.
Rebecca said, “Claire, I know you do not know me. You have no reason to trust me. But I watched someone I almost married become part of something cruel and possibly criminal. I could not let them do it to you.”
For a moment, none of us spoke.
Then the front door opened.
I had forgotten Andrew still had his key in his hand.
He moved fast.
Too fast.
He snatched the green folder from the table.
Daniel lunged, but Andrew was already backing toward the hall.
“Andrew,” I said.
His eyes were wild.
“I am not letting you ruin me.”
I stood slowly.
“You already did.”
He turned and ran toward the kitchen.
Not the front door.
The back.
Toward the mudroom.
Toward the fireplace.
My stomach dropped.
The folder.
The documents.
The USB drive.
The photographs.
“Daniel!” I shouted.
But Lorraine moved first.
She stepped into Andrew’s path.
Her own son nearly crashed into her.
“Move,” he barked.
Lorraine looked at the folder in his hands.
Then at his face.
Something ancient and maternal tore across her expression.
Not goodness.
Not redemption.
Recognition.
“No,” she said.
Andrew stared at her.
“What?”
Lorraine lifted one shaking hand and slapped him across the face.
The sound cracked through the house.
The folder fell to the floor.
Papers spilled across the hardwood like birds shot from the sky.
May you like
Lorraine looked down at them, then back at Andrew.
“What have you done?” she whispered.
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