Chapter 6 - THE APARTMENT NONE OF THEM LIVED IN
The Falmouth apartment turned out to belong to nobody in the family.
That was the first surprise.
Denise traced the recurring payment through the lease-management company after a transaction description revealed the complex name.
Public rental records did not list tenants, of course.
But Cassandra solved the mystery herself.
She called me Thursday morning.
“Can we talk?”
“No.”
“Mara.”
“Talk.”
“Not on the phone.”
“Then email.”
“This is personal.”
“So was using my salon money.”
Silence.
Then:
“I didn’t know.”
I almost laughed.
“You’re listed as a manager of Carter Coastal.”
“I knew about the business.”
“You knew about the loan.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about the new salon.”
“Yes.”
“You knew about buying mine.”
A pause.
“I thought you agreed.”
“Based on what?”
“Thomas showed me the draft.”
“The unsigned draft?”
“He said you were waiting until after tax planning.”
“What tax planning?”
“I don’t know.”
“That sentence is becoming popular.”
She started crying.
I did not soften immediately.
“Mara, I swear I thought you wanted to step back.”
“Why would I?”
“Oliver.”
“What about him?”
“You’re always working.”
There it was.
I closed my eyes.
“Did Thomas tell you I wanted fewer hours?”
“Yes.”
“He told me I needed more hours because his income was down.”
Silence.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“I really didn’t know that.”
I believed her enough to keep listening.
“What apartment?”
She hesitated.
“What apartment?”
“The one in Falmouth.”
Silence.
Then:
“That’s for Mom.”
Beatrice.
“Why?”
“Thomas leased it.”
“When?”
“Last summer.”
“Why is she living in my house?”
Cassandra started crying harder.
“I don’t know.”
That answer I did not believe.
“Cass.”
“She wouldn’t move.”
“Then why keep paying for it?”
“Because Thomas said we needed a place ready.”
“For what?”
“When you two separated.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“How long has he been talking about separation?”
“Since spring.”
That was five months.
“Did you know he filed?”
“No.”
“Did Beatrice?”
“Probably.”
“Did you know about the notebook?”
Silence.
“Cass.”
“Yes.”
“What did you think it was?”
“Mom said she was documenting how much she helped with Oliver.”
“For court?”
“She said maybe.”
I felt sick.
“You helped her?”
“No.”
“Did you ever write anything?”
“No.”
“Did you know Thomas was lying to me about money?”
“No.”
“Did you eat two lobsters I bought for my son?”
She cried.
“Yes.”
At least that answer was clean.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“The dinner.”
My body went still.
“What about it?”
“Mom planned it.”
“Cooking lobster?”
“No.”
Her voice dropped.
“She told me not to leave you any.”
I said nothing.
“She said you needed to understand you weren’t the center of the house.”
“That sounds like her.”
“And Thomas said not to worry if you got mad.”
My skin prickled.
“What exactly did he say?”
Cassandra hesitated.
“Cass.”
“He said, ‘Let her lose it.’”
The shattered plate.
The photograph.
The affidavit.
My voice came out flat.
“Did he have his phone out before I came home?”
“Yeah.”
“Where?”
“On the bookshelf.”
“Facing the kitchen?”
“I think so.”
I closed my eyes.
The photo attached to the court filing had been taken from near the living-room doorway.
Not from Thomas’s recliner.
Maybe he moved.
Maybe Beatrice took it.
Maybe they had simply anticipated an argument.
I stopped ahead of myself.
“Did anyone record me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Thomas tell you why he wanted me angry?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Cassandra whispered, “Because I wanted the salon.”
There it was.
Human.
Ugly.
Not stupidity.
Self-interest.
“Thank you.”
She sounded surprised.
“For what?”
“For finally saying something true.”
I ended the call.
That afternoon, Erin received a voluntary production from Thomas’s lawyer responding to our initial financial disclosures.
Tax returns.
Pay statements.
Bank summaries.
He could not hide the commission account now.
His attorney apparently had no appetite for being surprised later.
The separate account showed more than commissions.
It showed $42,000 transferred to Beatrice over fourteen months.
Another $37,000 to Carter Coastal.
And $16,800 in rent for the unused Falmouth apartment.
Meanwhile, my salon had paid MHC Services nearly $74,000.
Together, Thomas and I had effectively paid Beatrice more than a hundred thousand dollars in cash, benefits, and housing support while she lived in my home and called me an outsider.
I stared at the numbers.
“What was she doing with it?”
Erin said, “We’ll trace what’s relevant.”
“I’m not entitled to every dollar she spends.”
“Correct.”
“I hate maturity.”
“It passes.”
Then she showed me Thomas’s pay records.
He had not earned less.
His total compensation had increased.
Year one of our supposed “financial crisis”:
$118,000.
Year two:
$137,000.
Current year projected:
$151,000.
My extra Saturdays had never been required to save the mortgage.
They were required to keep cash flowing while Thomas redirected his own income elsewhere.
I went home Friday afternoon while Thomas was at work and Beatrice was at a prenatal appointment with Cassandra.
Erin had advised that I could access my own residence.
I brought Megan as a witness.
I did not touch Beatrice’s room.
I collected my passport.
Jewelry.
Oliver’s birth certificate.
Business records.
My mother’s old photographs.
Things I should have secured earlier.
In Thomas’s and my bedroom, I opened my desk.
My checkbook was missing.
So was the small folder containing old tax documents.
I photographed the empty drawer.
Then Megan called from the hallway.
“Mara.”
“What?”
She was staring at the family calendar.
Blue ink covered it.
My work shifts.
7–9.
8–8.
Saturday wedding party.
Late color correction.
Thomas pickup.
Beatrice dinner.
It was the notebook made public.
Next to some entries were initials.
B.
T.
Then one red line beside Friday.
MARA LATE — FAMILY DINNER — INCIDENT.
I stared.
The plate had a calendar entry.
Not added after.
The handwriting looked fresh.
Megan whispered, “Jesus.”
I photographed it.
Then we left.
At the car, Erin called.
“I just received the temporary motion packet.”
“What’s in it?”
“More from Beatrice’s notebook.”
“Anything new?”
“Yes.”
She read one entry.
August 2:
Mara asked to take extra late appointments through fall. Thomas agreed because money needed. Good for record.
I stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Erin continued.
August 9:
Remind T to encourage Saturdays. More absences before filing.
My skin went cold.
Thomas and Beatrice had not simply documented how much I worked.
May you like
They had encouraged it.
Then used it as proof I wasn’t home.
