Chapter 8 - THE FIRST LIE SLOANE TOLD ME
Sloane had known about the land long before she claimed.
I drove to my father’s house.
No warning.
No invitation.
Diane opened the door.
My stepmother looked exhausted.
“Wren.”
“Where’s Sloane?”
“Upstairs.”
“She needs to come down.”
“Can we please not do this like—”
“Like what?”
She stopped.
There was no good comparison.
Sloane appeared ten minutes later.
She looked at the document in my hand and immediately understood.
“You signed this.”
“I witnessed your signature.”
“You told me you discovered the Shaw deal five months ago.”
“I lied.”
At least she didn’t waste time.
“When did you know?”
“Two years ago.”
Dad walked into the room.
His face went pale.
I turned toward him.
“You too.”
“Wren—”
“No.”
I pointed toward the table.
“Everyone sits.”
Maybe emergency nursing had permanently damaged my ability to tolerate family theatrics.
They sat.
I remained standing.
Sloane explained first.
Dad asked her to witness the survey form.
She read more than she was supposed to.
She realized Bennett’s firm wanted the farm.
Later she confronted Bennett.
“He said it was harmless.”
“And you believed him?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Then why say nothing?”
Sloane looked at Dad.
“Because Dad asked me not to.”
I turned.
My father rubbed both hands over his face.
“I didn’t want you panicking before we knew whether the project was real.”
“Stop using that word.”
“What?”
“Panicking.”
My voice hardened.
“Every time a woman sees something you don’t want her to see, suddenly she’s panicking.”
Diane looked away.
Good.
Someone heard me.
Sloane continued.
A year later, Bennett started asking her about me.
Was I still emotionally attached to the farm?
Would I ever move back?
Did I trust Mara?
Did Grandma leave additional restrictions?
“And you answered him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I liked that he asked my opinion.”
The sadness of that almost disarmed me.
Almost.
“You wanted his attention.”
“Yes.”
“Then eventually you wanted him.”
Tears filled her eyes.
“Yes.”
I sat down.
Not because I forgave her.
Because anger is heavy.
“I need the whole truth.”
She took a breath.
“The first time we kissed was five months ago.”
“That part was true?”
“Yes.”
“But you were helping him before that.”
“Yes.”
“Did you help prepare the Friday documents?”
“No.”
“Did you tell him how to persuade me?”
Her silence answered.
I laughed bitterly.
“What did you suggest?”
“Your nursing scholarship.”
I froze.
“What?”
Grandma had created a small educational fund years earlier.
I used it for nursing school.
Sloane had reminded Bennett that I felt guilty accepting inheritance.
So he framed Harbor Ridge as a way to “make the land useful for other people.”
Medical offices.
Jobs.
Community space.
He had been using my values against me.
That betrayal felt intimate in a way sex almost didn’t.
“You taught him how to manipulate me.”
Sloane started crying.
“I know.”
Diane whispered:
“Sloane…”
“No, Mom.”
Sloane wiped her face.
“She deserves to hear it.”
For the first time, my stepsister did something brave.
Then she reached into her purse.
“I brought this.”
A phone.
Not hers.
Bennett’s old phone.
“He left it at my apartment three months ago. He thought I gave it back.”
“Why keep it?”
“Insurance.”
Of course.
She knew exactly what kind of man she was sleeping with.
The messages went back years.
Bennett and his father.
Bennett and my dad.
Bennett and investors.
Then I found one dated four days after our engagement.
Robert Shaw:
Once Wren signs, keep the wedding on track at least a year. A quick divorce looks bad.
Bennett replied:
I’m not planning to divorce her.
For one stupid second, relief touched me.
Then Robert answered:
Then make sure she never understands why you approached her.
Bennett’s reply came two minutes later.
She can never know that part.
I looked at Sloane.
“What part?”
She shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
But the phone contained one clue.
A photograph Bennett had taken seven years earlier.
The urgent care clinic.
The exact building where we first met.
Timestamped three hours before he cut his hand.
May you like
He had been there before the accident.
Waiting.
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