Chapter 4 - The Woman in Suite 418
Vanessa did not sound triumphant.
She sounded terrified.
That made the call worse.
“I didn’t know you were still together,” she said.
I almost laughed.
“He slept beside me Thursday night.”
Silence.
Then a broken whisper.
“Oh my God.”
Vanessa worked as an interior materials rep who supplied Walker Renovations.
She met Ryan eighteen months earlier.
According to Ryan, our marriage had been over for years.
We stayed under one roof because of Ellie.
I supposedly refused divorce because I wanted access to his money.
His money.
I closed my eyes.
“How long?”
“Ten months.”
My throat tightened.
“Did he rent that apartment for you?”
“For us.”
Of course.
“Did he tell you he was refinancing our home?”
Vanessa hesitated.
“Yes.”
I gripped the table.
“What did he say?”
“That you agreed to sell eventually.”
“I agreed to nothing.”
Another long silence.
Then Vanessa started crying.
“He said the refinance would clear the business debt and give him enough cash to buy you out.”
The pieces locked together.
Ryan wasn’t refinancing our marriage.
He was financing his exit from it.
“Vanessa, why are you calling me tonight?”
“Because Ethan called my brother.”
I blinked.
“What?”
Ethan apparently recognized Riverside Management when he saw one of Ryan’s transfer records months earlier.
Vanessa’s brother managed maintenance for the building.
Ethan asked a simple question.
Who lived in 418?
Then Vanessa learned Ryan had publicly humiliated me at the barbecue while still telling her he was waiting for me to “accept the separation.”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
I believed she was sorry.
That didn’t make her innocent.
“You knew he was married.”
“Yes.”
“You chose to believe the version that benefited you.”
“Yes.”
That answer surprised me.
No excuses.
Then she said:
“Megan, there’s something else.”
I waited.
“Ryan brought documents here Thursday.”
“What documents?”
“The refinance.”
My stomach tightened.
“He said you were signing Monday.”
“I’m not.”
“I know that now.”
Then Vanessa sent me a photograph.
Ryan’s briefcase sat open on a table.
Inside were mortgage documents.
Bank statements.
And one page with my signature already written on it.
I enlarged the image.
My name.
My handwriting.
But I had never signed it.
Vanessa whispered:
“He told me you signed early.”
I stared at the forged signature.
May you like
Ryan had stopped waiting for my permission.
And Monday’s appointment might never have been about getting it.
