Chapter 12 - THE PHOTO
I almost called Laura.
Rachel stopped me.
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“Context.”
The photo looked damning.
Preston leaning across a table.
Laura facing him.
A folder between them.
But after everything I had learned, I was done trusting appearances.
Ten minutes later, Laura called me herself.
“Did Preston tell you we met?”
“No.”
“He probably will.”
“Why?”
“Because he wants you to think I’m helping him.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
Laura explained.
Preston had asked to meet, claiming he had evidence that Raymond knew about Northline.
She agreed only after company counsel approved the meeting.
Two attorneys had been sitting three tables away.
The folder contained copies of emails Preston claimed proved his case.
“They didn’t,” Laura said.
“What did they prove?”
“That Raymond questioned the invoices. Preston repeatedly assured him everything was legitimate.”
I almost laughed.
Even Preston’s evidence worked against him.
“Who sent me the photo?”
“No idea.”
But I did.
“Mason.”
I called him.
He answered on the first ring.
“You sent it.”
Silence.
“Mason.”
“Preston told me to.”
My anger rose.
“You’re still doing things for him?”
“He said if you thought Laura betrayed you, you might stop cooperating.”
I shut my eyes.
Preston was still trying to manage people like pieces on a board.
“Why are you telling me?”
“Because I’m tired.”
“Then stop.”
“I’m trying.”
“No. Trying is what Preston says after he gets caught. Decide.”
Mason said nothing.
I ended the call.
The joint-account issue was eventually addressed through our attorneys.
The hotel charge?
Preston claimed it was for “legal strategy meetings.”
Rachel almost smiled when she read that.
What mattered more was what came next.
Company investigators found an email Preston had sent Mason eight months earlier.
We need to keep Abby’s name separate from everything. If she starts asking her father questions, this gets messy.
I read the sentence three times.
Then another email surfaced.
She still trusts me. Don’t give her a reason not to.
That one hurt worse.
Because he knew.
He knew I trusted him.
And he had treated my trust as a resource.
Something to spend.
Something to use.
At our first divorce mediation session, Preston sat across from me wearing the same navy suit he wore to major client meetings.
He looked polished.
Controlled.
Almost like the man I had married.
He leaned toward me before the attorneys entered.
“We can still stop this.”
“No.”
“You’re angry.”
“I’m informed.”
“Your parents poisoned you against me.”
I held his gaze.
“No, Preston.”
The door opened.
Rachel entered.
I finished the sentence.
May you like
“They taught me to read before I sign.”
And for the first time, he had nothing to say.
