Chapter 3 - THE PERFECT SCAPEGOAT
I didn’t sleep that night.
Neither did Chloe.
We left Rosewood Estate shortly after midnight.
The wedding was effectively over.
Andrew remained with his father and attorneys.
Gavin was escorted out through a side entrance after his own lawyer arrived.
Rachel disappeared with Mom.
Nobody knew where they went.
Or at least nobody told me.
By 1:40 in the morning, Chloe and I were back in our apartment.
The difference between Rosewood Estate and our home had never felt so dramatic.
At Rachel’s wedding, champagne glasses cost more than my weekly grocery bill.
At home, one cabinet door never closed properly and our living-room lamp leaned slightly because Chloe had knocked it over while practicing cartwheels two years earlier.
I had never loved that crooked lamp more.
Chloe climbed into my bed.
“Mom?”
“Yes?”
“Is Aunt Rachel going to jail?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is Grandma?”
I closed my eyes.
“I don’t know that either.”
She was quiet.
Then:
“Are you mad at me?”
I turned toward her.
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“Because I played the video.”
“No.”
“But everyone was screaming.”
“That wasn’t because of you.”
“I could have told you first.”
“Yes.”
“Would you have believed me?”
That question hurt.
I wanted to say yes immediately.
Then I remembered my entire relationship with Rachel.
How many times had I explained away cruelty?
How many times had I told myself, That’s just Rachel?
How many times had I accepted apologies that weren’t apologies because challenging my family felt harder than swallowing another insult?
I touched Chloe’s hair.
“I would have believed you.”
She looked uncertain.
“But I also understand why you were scared.”
“I thought Aunt Rachel would make you not go.”
“To the wedding?”
She nodded.
“And then Uncle Andrew wouldn’t know.”
I kissed her forehead.
“You did a brave thing.”
“Even though it was embarrassing?”
“Especially because it was embarrassing.”
She finally slept.
I didn’t.
At 6:15, my phone started vibrating.
Thirty-seven unread messages.
By seven, there were seventy-two.
Apparently someone had recorded the screen.
Of course they had.
The clip had already escaped the wedding.
One account posted eight seconds of Rachel kissing Gavin.
Another had footage of Andrew asking whether she had slept with his best friend.
The most popular clip showed my sister’s face when my mother admitted knowing about the company.
I shut off social media.
Then my principal called.
Fantastic.
“Claire?”
“Hi, Mrs. Parker.”
“Is everything all right?”
I looked toward Chloe sleeping.
“No.”
“That was a stupid question.”
I almost laughed.
She continued.
“Someone sent me a video.”
“I assumed.”
“Do you need Monday off?”
“I can work.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
Tears stung my eyes.
“Yes.”
“Take Monday.”
“Thank you.”
“And Claire?”
“Yes?”
“Your daughter isn’t useless.”
I covered my mouth.
Mrs. Parker’s voice softened.
“I’ve met Chloe. Anyone who thinks otherwise is an idiot.”
After we hung up, I cried in my kitchen.
Not because I was weak.
Because sometimes kindness hurts more than cruelty when you haven’t received enough of it.
At nine, Monica arrived.
She brought coffee.
And a list.
Freeze credit.
Get full credit reports.
Contact banks.
Preserve communications.
File identity-theft reports.
Document every financial loss.
Do not communicate privately with Rachel or Mom.
That final instruction became important eleven minutes later.
Mom called.
I stared at her name.
Monica looked over.
“Speaker.”
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Claire.”
Mom sounded like she had been crying.
“We need to fix this.”
I laughed.
“You mean the wedding?”
“No.”
“The affair?”
“Claire.”
“The company you knew was in my name?”
Silence.
Monica wrote something on a yellow pad.
Mom whispered, “Rachel made mistakes.”
“Using my Social Security number isn’t a mistake.”
“She was desperate.”
“For what?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it.”
Mom breathed shakily.
“Rachel’s boutique failed.”
I remembered the boutique.
Luxury home accessories.
Candles that cost ninety dollars.
Blankets nobody was allowed to touch.
It lasted fourteen months.
Mom continued.
“She owed people money.”
“So she stole my identity?”
“She didn’t think of it that way.”
“How did she think of it?”
“As borrowing.”
“Borrowing my identity?”
“She intended to pay everything.”
Monica shook her head.
I felt suddenly calm.
Dangerously calm.
“How did she get my Social Security number?”
Mom didn’t answer.
“Mom.”
“I had copies of your old tax documents.”
There it was.
“You gave them to her.”
“She was my daughter.”
“So am I.”
Silence.
I said it again.
“So am I.”
“I know.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
“She was crying, Claire. She said she would lose everything.”
“And you decided I should lose it instead.”
“No.”
“I got denied for a car loan.”
Mom started crying.
“I didn’t know.”
“I paid nineteen percent interest on a used Honda because my credit was destroyed.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I nearly lost my apartment two years ago because a landlord thought I lied about my debt.”
“I didn’t know.”
“You intercepted a bank notice.”
That stopped her.
“How do you know that?”
I looked at Monica.
She pointed toward the recording app on her phone.
“Rachel wrote it.”
Mom’s voice disappeared.
Finally:
“She told me the account was temporary.”
“You believed her?”
“I wanted to.”
“No. You chose to.”
“Claire, please.”
“Did you forge anything?”
“No.”
Too quickly.
Monica wrote:
ASK AGAIN.
I did.
“Did you ever sign my name?”
“No.”
“Did Rachel?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you watch her?”
Silence.
“Mom?”
“Once.”
My entire body went numb.
“What?”
“She needed a form witnessed.”
Monica stopped writing.
“Witnessed by whom?”
Mom breathed into the phone.
“Me.”
I closed my eyes.
“What form?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s a lie.”
“I swear.”
“Was it for Bennett Educational Consulting?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
Monica mouthed, Good.
I didn’t feel good.
I felt like someone had opened the floor beneath my childhood.
Mom continued.
“You have to understand Rachel was under enormous pressure.”
“To own expensive things?”
“She had investors.”
“She had me.”
“I never wanted you hurt.”
“You watched her sign my name.”
“I thought she would fix it.”
“You watched her forge my signature.”
“I’m sorry.”
I opened my eyes.
“No, you’re sorry she got caught.”
“Claire!”
“Would you have told me otherwise?”
Silence.
“Would you?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
Mom started crying harder.
“After the wedding.”
I almost laughed.
Of course.
After Rachel got what she wanted.
After she married into wealth.
After the financial scheme became harder to unravel.
“Goodbye, Mom.”
“Wait!”
I stopped.
Her voice dropped.
“There’s something else.”
Monica looked up.
“What?”
“Rachel didn’t start the company only because of the boutique.”
Every nerve in my body tightened.
“Then why?”
Mom whispered:
“Gavin needed it.”
Monica moved closer to the phone.
“For what?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Tell me what you do know.”
“He approached Rachel about eighteen months ago.”
“That’s around when the Whitmore money disappeared,” Monica said softly.
Mom heard her.
“Who is there?”
“My attorney.”
“Oh, God.”
“You should probably get one too.”
“Claire, listen to me. Gavin told Rachel he could make her independent.”
“From whom?”
“Andrew.”
I frowned.
“Why did she need to be independent from the man she was trying to marry?”
Mom said nothing.
The answer arrived on its own.
Because Rachel had never intended to stay married.
“How long?”
My voice shook.
“What?”
“How long did she plan to stay with Andrew?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom.”
“Maybe a year.”
I felt sick.
“A year?”
“She said once she had enough money, she could leave.”
“Enough money from where?”
Mom began sobbing again.
“I don’t know.”
Monica’s eyes narrowed.
I asked the question anyway.
“Did Rachel marry Andrew for money?”
Mom whispered:
“She said she loved him.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“She said she loved him.”
“Mom.”
Another silence.
Then:
“She also said love wasn’t a retirement plan.”
I ended the call.
For several minutes, Monica and I sat quietly.
Then she leaned back.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“We need to assume your name is connected to more than bad credit.”
I already knew that.
My phone buzzed.
A message from an unfamiliar number.
I opened it.
Andrew.
I’m sorry to contact you directly. My father’s forensic team found something. Monica should see it.
Another message arrived.
A photograph.
A contract.
My forged signature appeared at the bottom.
Above it were words I didn’t understand.
Assignment of Beneficial Interest.
Amount:
$2,420,000.
My breath stopped.
Then I saw the date.
It had been signed fourteen months earlier.
On a Wednesday.
At 10:13 a.m.
I knew exactly where I had been at 10:13 that morning.
Standing in front of twenty-six fourth graders teaching fractions.
There were witnesses.
A classroom camera.
Attendance records.
Everything.
For the first time since the screen lit up at Rachel’s wedding, I smiled.
Monica noticed.
“What?”
I handed her the phone.
“They chose the wrong day.”
She looked at the timestamp.
Then at me.
“Can you prove where you were?”
“Absolutely.”
Her smile matched mine.
“Good.”
I thought that was our first real break.
It wasn’t.
Because Andrew sent one more message.
May you like
This one contained only eight words.
Claire, there is a life insurance policy too.
