Chapter 6 - The Blue Folder
“What things?”
My mother breathed into the phone.
“Come over. Alone.”
“No.”
“Hannah, we can settle this.”
“You can start by explaining why my identification was used to open a bank account.”
“That’s exactly why we need to talk privately.”
I looked at Carla.
She shook her head.
I already knew.
“If you have something to say, put it in writing.”
Mom hung up.
An hour later, she sent a photograph.
A blue folder on her dining table.
Underneath it, a message.
Your signature is on more than one page.
I forwarded it to the detective assigned to the report.
Then I called the attorney Daniel had recommended.
Her name was Mara Ortiz.
Before agreeing to meet, she made one thing clear.
“I would represent you, Hannah. Not Daniel. His interests and yours may overlap, but they aren’t identical.”
For the first time since the wedding, I felt someone had placed a solid object beneath my feet.
We met Monday afternoon.
I brought bank records, messages, and a copy of the video.
Mara watched Rachel say my name.
She rewound the moment when my mother nodded.
Then she shut the laptop.
“Tell me every time either of them had access to your personal information.”
There were too many.
School forms.
Tax papers when my printer broke.
An emergency contact sheet.
The urgent care visit.
Shame burned through me.
“I made it easy.”
“You trusted your mother.”
“That sounds like the same thing.”
“It isn’t.”
Daniel sent the invoices while we were still in her office.
Three payments.
Fifty-eight thousand.
Sixty-four thousand.
Sixty-four thousand.
The work descriptions referenced repairs at a rental property Daniel’s company had recently purchased.
The invoices named a vendor I’d never heard of and listed me as its managing member.
Attached to the last invoice was an authorization page bearing Daniel’s signature.
Mara glanced at the email beneath it.
He disputed signing that page.
Rachel had needed both of us.
His money.
My name.
Mara drafted a notice disputing my involvement and asking that relevant records be preserved.
I sat beside her, watching clear sentences replace the chaos in my head.
Then Carla called.
Her voice was tight.
“Hannah, your mother’s at your building.”
“What does she want?”
“She told the neighbor she’s here to pick up Emma’s tablet.”
I stood so quickly my chair struck the wall.
“Emma isn’t there.”
May you like
“I know,” Carla said.
“But your mother still has your spare key.”
