Chapter 6 - THE PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR WHO REFUSED TO LIE
NorthStar Domestic Investigations called Nora before we called them.
The owner, Marcus Reed, had received a preservation letter.
He wanted counsel.
That usually meant trouble.
Nora scheduled an interview with his attorney present.
Marcus was in his late fifties.
Former police detective.
Gray hair.
No patience for drama.
He looked at me once.
Then at the photograph of my bruised face in Nora’s file.
His jaw tightened.
“I did not know he was hitting you.”
I said nothing.
Nora asked.
“What did Christopher Hale hire you to investigate?”
Marcus opened a folder.
“Initially, suspected infidelity.”
I almost laughed.
“Mine?”
“Yes.”
“Did you find any?”
“No.”
“Did Christopher know that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Within six weeks.”
“Then why did he keep paying you for almost a year?”
Marcus looked uncomfortable.
“Because the assignment changed.”
My stomach tightened.
“To what?”
“Routine documentation.”
“What does that mean?”
“Where you went.”
“Who you met.”
“How long you stayed.”
“What you purchased.”
“What time you arrived home.”
I stared at him.
“You followed me for almost a year?”
“Not every day.”
“That’s supposed to help?”
“No.”
Nora asked.
“Who requested the expanded surveillance?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Christopher.”
“Anyone else?”
“His mother attended two meetings.”
Florence.
Of course.
“What did she want?”
Marcus opened his notes.
“Evidence of financial irresponsibility.”
I laughed.
“She was investing money stolen from me.”
Marcus looked away.
“What else?”
“Alcohol use.”
“I drink maybe twice a month.”
“We documented that.”
“What else?”
“Relationship with your parents.”
I froze.
“What about it?”
“Florence believed you were transferring marital assets to them.”
My father looked furious.
“I never took one cent from Sabrina.”
Marcus nodded.
“We found no evidence.”
“What else?”
Nora asked.
“Work travel.”
“Why?”
“Potential abandonment narrative.”
My skin went cold.
“Abandonment?”
Marcus nodded reluctantly.
“They wanted dates when you were away overnight.”
I thought of business trips.
Two nights in Chicago.
Three in Duluth.
A supplier meeting in Fargo.
All approved by my company.
Normal work.
Christopher had encouraged me to go.
He often said my salary was the stable part of our finances.
Now I knew why.
He wanted the salary.
And possibly the absences.
“What was he planning?”
Marcus looked at his attorney.
The attorney nodded.
“Mr. Hale mentioned divorce litigation.”
My heart tightened even though I expected it.
“When?”
“About eight months ago.”
Eight months.
Far earlier than the Denton payment we had discovered.
“Did he say why?”
“He wanted to document that you were rarely home.”
I stared.
“I came home almost every night.”
“Yes.”
“Did your surveillance show that?”
“Yes.”
“Did you give him those reports?”
“Yes.”
Nora asked.
“Any request involving Sabrina’s parents’ house?”
Marcus nodded.
“They wanted to know whether you stored property there.”
I felt cold.
“What property?”
“Documents.”
There it was.
The suitcase searches again.
“What documents?”
“He never specified.”
“Did Florence?”
Marcus hesitated.
“She asked whether you ever carried folders, envelopes, or bank papers when visiting your parents.”
My father swore.
I looked at Marcus.
“And you followed me there?”
“Twice.”
“Did you photograph my suitcase?”
“No.”
“Did you enter my parents’ property?”
“No.”
“Did Christopher ask you to?”
Marcus’s silence answered.
Nora leaned forward.
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I refused.”
For the first time, I felt a flicker of respect for him.
“Anything else?”
Marcus opened another file.
“Christopher asked for information on your parents’ finances.”
My father stiffened.
“What kind of information?”
“Property ownership.”
“Retirement assets.”
“Business interests.”
My father stared.
“Why?”
Marcus shook his head.
“I don’t know.”
Then he looked at me.
“There was one request I terminated.”
“What?”
“He wanted us to create photographs.”
My stomach tightened.
“Create?”
“Stage.”
Nora’s expression hardened.
“Explain.”
Marcus looked embarrassed.
“He asked whether one of our investigators could be photographed entering a hotel with Sabrina.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“He wanted an image that could be interpreted as an affair.”
My father stood.
“That bastard.”
Nora raised a hand.
“Sit, Daniel.”
My father did not look calm.
Marcus continued.
“I refused.”
“What did Christopher say?”
“He said it was only to pressure you into an uncontested settlement.”
I felt physically sick.
He had not found evidence of infidelity.
So he tried to manufacture it.
“What did Florence say?”
“She was present.”
“What did she say?”
Marcus looked at his notes.
Then read the line.
“Sometimes a woman needs a reason to leave quietly.”
The room went silent.
I stared at nothing.
Florence had searched my bags.
Taken my money.
Watched her son hit me.
And behind my back, she had discussed fabricating an affair to make me leave quietly.
Nora asked.
“Why did you continue working for them after that?”
Marcus looked ashamed.
“I didn’t.”
“When did you terminate?”
“Four months ago.”
“Then why are there payments after that?”
He frowned.
“There shouldn’t be.”
Nora showed him the statements.
His face changed.
“These did not come to my firm.”
“Same description.”
“Not same routing.”
Nora looked at me.
“Someone used the company name as a payment label.”
My pulse climbed.
A fake investigator payment.
Money hidden behind a familiar description.
“Where did it go?”
Nora made a note.
“We’ll trace it.”
Marcus slid another envelope across the table.
“These are your reports.”
I opened one.
There I was.
Leaving work.
Buying groceries.
Visiting my parents.
Sitting alone in a coffee shop.
Attending a work dinner with six colleagues.
Photographs of an ordinary woman living an ordinary life.
Yet underneath each image were notes.
SUBJECT APPEARS TIRED.
SUBJECT LEFT RESIDENCE 6:04 A.M.
SUBJECT RETURNED 8:31 P.M.
SUBJECT PURCHASED WINE.
SUBJECT MET MALE COWORKER.
Everything could be made suspicious if someone wanted it badly enough.
I turned another page.
A photograph of me sitting in my car crying.
I remembered the day.
My grandmother’s anniversary of death.
Christopher had screamed at me that morning because I forgot to buy Florence’s favorite cereal.
I cried in the parking lot before work.
The report said:
SUBJECT DISPLAYED POSSIBLE EMOTIONAL DISTRESS BEFORE ENTERING WORKPLACE.
I closed the folder.
Christopher had been collecting my worst moments while causing some of them.
Nora looked at Marcus.
“Did Mr. Hale ever discuss mental health?”
“Yes.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He asked whether emotional instability could influence divorce proceedings.”
I almost laughed.
I had heard enough stories like this.
A woman gets angry because she is mistreated.
Then the anger becomes evidence that the mistreatment was justified.
“Anything else?”
Marcus nodded slowly.
“He asked if we could document medication.”
“My medication?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t take anything except allergy pills.”
“We found nothing.”
“Did Florence ask?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
Marcus checked his notes.
“She said, ‘We can find something if we look long enough.’”
My mother whispered.
“My God.”
Then Marcus remembered something.
“About the documents.”
I looked at him.
“What?”
“Florence once asked whether you had been to a bank safe deposit box.”
I frowned.
“I don’t have one.”
“She thought you did.”
“Why?”
“She said something about Robert’s papers.”
Christopher’s father.
My pulse changed.
“What papers?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly what did she say?”
Marcus searched his notebook.
Then read.
IF SABRINA FINDS ROBERT’S PAPERS, SHE WILL THINK SHE HAS A CLAIM.
I stared.
“Claim to what?”
Marcus looked at me.
“She did not say.”
My mind returned to the old wooden box.
The house.
The trust.
The cabin.
The business.
Robert Hale.
Christopher’s father.
Maybe Florence had not merely feared I would discover financial documents about my own money.
Maybe there were older papers.
Something Robert had written before he died.
Something that gave me a claim.
But I had never known Robert.
He died years before Christopher and I married.
Why would I have a claim to anything connected to him?
I asked my father.
“Did you know Robert Hale?”
My father went still.
Too still.
My stomach tightened.
“Dad?”
He looked at my mother.
Then at me.
“I met him once.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“How many?”
He hesitated.
“About twenty-four.”
My mouth went dry.
That was long before I knew Christopher.
“Why?”
My father rubbed his hands together.
“Our businesses crossed paths.”
“That’s not an answer.”
My mother looked confused too.
“Daniel?”
He exhaled.
“Robert wanted to borrow money.”
I stared.
“From you?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Thirty thousand dollars.”
“Did you lend it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he offered something as collateral that didn’t belong to him.”
I felt cold.
“What?”
My father looked directly at me.
“Land.”
“What land?”
“The parcel where Florence’s house was eventually built.”
Silence.
I could hear the clock.
My father continued.
“At the time, Robert claimed he was buying it.”
“Was he?”
“Not exactly.”
“Who owned it?”
My father looked at my mother again.
Then back at me.
“Your grandfather.”
I stopped breathing.
“My mother’s father?”
“No.”
His voice became quiet.
“My father.”
I stared at him.
“The land under Florence’s house belonged to Grandpa Carter?”
“Originally.”
The story had just become older than my marriage.
Older than Christopher’s business.
Older than the forged deed.
My father stood and walked toward the wooden box.
He pulled out another envelope.
This one was sealed.
I had not opened it because it had no name on the front.
My father held it for several seconds.
“Robert Hale gave this to me the last time I saw him.”
“Why?”
“He said if anything ever happened to him, I should keep it.”
“Did you open it?”
“Yes.”
“What is inside?”
He handed it to me.
A photocopy of an old land contract.
My grandfather, Samuel Carter, had sold the property to Robert Hale under installment terms.
But the final page contained a clause.
If the balance was not paid within fifteen years, ownership would revert to Samuel Carter or his heirs.
I looked up.
“Was it paid?”
My father shook his head.
“Not fully.”
My pulse hammered.
“Then whose land is it?”
My father’s face was pale.
“That is what I should have checked years ago.”
Nora took the papers.
She read them slowly.
Then she looked at me.
“If this contract was never satisfied, Florence may not own the underlying property free and clear.”
My stomach dropped.
The house Florence spent two years calling exclusively hers might have been built on land that legally never left my grandfather’s family.
May you like
And suddenly her obsession with reminding me that nothing under her roof belonged to me sounded very different.
Maybe Florence had known exactly whose land she was standing on.
