Chapter 7 - TWENTY-ONE DAYS
I drove to Bellevue for the first time since Christmas Eve on December 27.
This time, Emily opened the door before I reached it.
“Come upstairs.”
No greeting.
No coat removed.
No tea.
She led me into Jason’s office.
I had rarely been inside.
It was the one room Beatrice had never redecorated.
Dark wood desk.
Two monitors.
Shelves filled with business books Jason had probably purchased because successful men were photographed beside books.
Emily closed the door.
Documents covered the desk.
“I started looking after I left your house.”
She handed me a bank statement.
I read the transactions.
Large withdrawals.
Transfers.
Hotel charges.
Restaurants.
Luxury purchases.
A wire transfer.
“What account is this?”
“Jason’s personal account.”
“Why didn’t you know about it?”
“He told me he closed it two years ago.”
The wire transfer caught my attention.
$48,000.
Recipient: B. Caldwell.
I looked at Emily.
“Beatrice?”
“She says it was repayment.”
“For what?”
“She won’t tell me.”
Another transfer.
$22,500.
Then $18,000.
All to Beatrice over fourteen months.
I sat down.
“Emily, you need your own attorney.”
“I have Mom.”
“No. You have my attorney working on the property. You need someone representing you.”
Her face tightened.
“You think I should divorce him?”
“I think you should understand your financial position before deciding anything.”
That was the librarian in me.
Information first.
Conclusion second.
Emily laughed bitterly.
“You know what Beatrice said when I confronted her?”
“What?”
“She said marriage is about loyalty.”
I almost smiled.
“That woman uses words the way burglars use gloves.”
Emily let out a surprised laugh.
Then started crying.
I moved beside her.
This time, I put my arm around my daughter.
Not because the consequences had disappeared.
Because accountability does not require cruelty.
“I was awful to you,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
She pulled back.
I think she expected me to soften it.
I didn’t.
“You were.”
“I let her make you feel small.”
“Yes.”
“I kept telling myself it was easier.”
“For whom?”
She looked down.
“I know.”
We spent three hours organizing records.
It felt oddly familiar.
Emily had worked in the library during summers in high school.
I taught her how to catalog documents.
Dates.
Sources.
Cross-references.
For the first time in years, we were doing something together without Beatrice’s shadow between us.
At 4:30, the front door opened.
Jason.
We heard him calling.
“Emily?”
She stiffened.
I remained seated.
Jason appeared in the office doorway.
The moment he saw me, anger flashed across his face.
“What is she doing here?”
Emily stood.
“Looking at our finances.”
“Our?”
“Yes, Jason. Our.”
He noticed the papers.
His expression changed.
“You went through my desk?”
“This is my house.”
“No, apparently it’s your mother’s.”
The sarcasm was a mistake.
Emily’s eyes hardened.
“That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said all week.”
Jason stared at her.
Then at me.
“You need to leave.”
I remained calm.
“Do you want to repeat that while my phone records?”
He froze.
I was not recording.
Thirty years around teenagers had taught me that confident questions often work better than threats.
Emily stepped between us.
“Why have you transferred ninety thousand dollars to your mother?”
Jason’s anger disappeared.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
He ran a hand over his face.
“It’s complicated.”
“That sentence is becoming popular.”
I said nothing.
This was their marriage.
Emily pointed at the statements.
“Explain.”
Jason shut the office door.
For the next fifteen minutes, the story came out in fragments.
His business had lost two major clients.
He borrowed from Beatrice.
At least, that was his version.
The transfers were repayments.
“How much did she lend you?” Emily asked.
“About a hundred twenty.”
“When?”
“Different times.”
“Show me.”
“I don’t have everything here.”
Emily laughed without humor.
“Of course you don’t.”
Then I noticed one date.
One transfer had occurred before the business allegedly began struggling.
I pointed to it.
“This was nineteen months ago.”
Jason’s eyes shifted.
Emily saw it too.
“What was that for?”
Silence.
“What was that for?”
Jason sat down.
Finally he whispered, “An investment.”
“What investment?”
He looked toward me.
Emily stepped closer.
“Stop looking at my mother. Answer me.”
Jason closed his eyes.
“Mom and I invested in a development project.”
Beatrice and Jason.
“How much?” Emily asked.
“Two hundred thousand.”
Her face went blank.
“We didn’t have two hundred thousand.”
“No.”
“Then where did it come from?”
Jason said nothing.
And I suddenly knew.
“The business credit line.”
He looked at me.
Emily whispered, “You used company money?”
“Temporarily.”
“Did the investment fail?”
Jason didn’t answer.
Emily sat down.
“Oh my God.”
The house.
The refinancing.
The false financial statement.
It all made sense.
Jason wasn’t trying to grow his business.
He was trying to fill a hole.
“How much do you owe?” I asked.
“That’s none of your business.”
“It became my business when you listed my property.”
He clenched his jaw.
“Seven hundred and eighty thousand.”
Emily made a sound I had never heard from her.
Not a cry.
Something emptier.
Jason rushed toward her.
“We can recover.”
She moved away.
“No.”
“I have a plan.”
“No more plans.”
“If we refinance—”
“My mother’s house?”
He stopped.
The irony seemed to hit even him.
Emily walked to the door.
“Get out.”
“Emily.”
“Get out of this room.”
“This is my office.”
“Then enjoy it.”
She walked downstairs.
I followed.
Behind us Jason shouted, “Margaret, you did this!”
I stopped.
Turned.
“No, Jason.”
He glared down from the landing.
“I simply stopped paying to hide it.”
That night, Samuel received an email from Robert Klein.
Jason intended to contest the breach notice.
The twenty-one-day deadline would not pass quietly.
And according to Samuel, Jason’s attorney had made one unexpected claim.
May you like
Jason now insisted the Bellevue house had been promised to him.
By my late husband.
