Chapter 10 - There Was Another Woman
Her name was Eleanor Price.
Seventy-one.
Widowed.
Wealthy.
And once a client of Paige’s consulting company.
Laurel had recognized Eleanor’s photograph during another interview.
Two years earlier, Paige had asked Laurel to portray an “older investor” for what she again described as marketing material.
Different wig.
Different clothes.
Same basic arrangement.
Investigators contacted Eleanor.
She discovered $27,000 in questionable charges.
That changed the scope of everything.
I had believed Paige targeted me because of family resentment.
Perhaps that was only part of it.
Eleanor and I met several weeks later.
She was funny, sharp, and furious.
“I spent three months wondering whether I was losing my mind,” she told me.
That sentence broke my heart.
Because that had been the method.
Not merely stealing money.
Stealing certainty.
If you convince someone she cannot trust herself, she becomes easier to control.
Eleanor had questioned charges.
Paige told her she must have forgotten authorizing them.
Eleanor apologized.
That was the cruelty I could not forgive easily.
The money mattered.
But making another human being apologize for noticing she was being deceived?
That was something darker.
Investigators incorporated Eleanor’s evidence where appropriate.
Paige’s legal position deteriorated.
Eventually her attorneys began serious negotiations.
Months later, she entered agreements resolving portions of the criminal and civil cases, while other consequences followed through the courts.
I attended only when necessary.
I no longer needed to watch Paige lose.
I needed to watch myself move forward.
That distinction saved me.
Grant’s divorce became final the following spring.
He came to my house afterward.
No celebration.
No champagne.
He sat on the porch.
“It’s done.”
“How do you feel?”
“Sad.”
I nodded.
People expect betrayal to erase love retroactively.
It doesn’t.
Sometimes you discover someone harmed you and still mourn the person you thought she was.
Grant was allowed that grief.
So was Diane.
So, strangely, was I.
Because there had been good days with Paige.
Christmas mornings.
Birthdays.
Laughter.
Photographs.
Either those moments contained truth or I had believed they did.
Both possibilities deserved mourning.
But grief was no longer going to determine my choices.
That summer I sold the enormous house Russell and I had lived in.
Grant panicked.
“Why?”
“Because there are five bathrooms.”
“So?”
“I only have one body.”
He laughed.
I bought a smaller adobe home with mountain views.
I kept Russell’s chair.
His letters.
His ridiculous chili pot.
And the photograph I had carried to Juniper House the day Paige slapped me.
Grant at six months old in Russell’s arms.
I finally showed it to him.
He stared for a long time.
“Dad looks terrified.”
“He was.”
“Of me?”
“Of dropping you.”
Grant smiled.
“He didn’t.”
“No.”
Neither had I.
Not really.
But there had been times when protecting my son meant refusing to protect him from consequences.
That was something motherhood had taken me sixty-two years to understand.
Then another change came.
Northstar received an acquisition offer.
A large regional developer wanted to buy the company.
The offer would make Grant wealthy enough to retire before forty.
Everyone expected me to approve.
I didn’t.
Not immediately.
I asked Grant what he wanted.
He surprised me.
“I don’t want to sell.”
“Why?”
“Because Dad built this with us.”
“Sentiment is an expensive business strategy.”
“I know.”
“Then give me another reason.”
He did.
He presented a five-year expansion plan.
Affordable housing projects.
Employee equity.
Stronger reserves.
New oversight.
It was good.
Very good.
I voted with him.
Northstar remained ours.
But the employee trust received additional shares.
Grant suggested it himself.
“You’re giving up control,” I said.
He smiled.
“I think I’ve learned something about control.”
Maybe he had.
By autumn, life felt almost normal.
Then a letter arrived.
From Paige.
Not her attorney.
Paige herself.
I considered throwing it away.
Instead I opened it.
The first sentence read:
I know I have no right to ask you for anything, but there is one lie you still believe, and I need to correct it.
I kept reading.
By the end, my hands were trembling.
Because Paige claimed that one person had known about the questionable Northstar payments long before the spa incident.
Someone I trusted completely.
May you like
And she named Celeste.
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