Chapter 3 - THE WOMAN WITH THE BLUEPRINTS
At 7:35 the next morning, Rebecca and I were parked across the street from my house.
Skylar was safely at school.
I had told her only that some adults had made bad decisions and that I was fixing them.
She asked whether Dad was in trouble.
I answered carefully.
“Your father is responsible for explaining his own choices.”
I refused to teach her that love meant pretending someone had done nothing wrong.
At 7:52, a silver SUV pulled into our driveway.
The woman from Gertrude’s photograph stepped out.
She was carrying the same leather portfolio.
Rebecca photographed the license plate.
“That’s probably your architect.”
Twenty minutes later, Brandon called.
I answered.
“Where are you?”
His voice was tight.
“Why?”
“Because people are here.”
“People you invited into my house to discuss a project I never approved?”
Silence.
Then his tone softened.
“Char, you’re making this sound worse than it is.”
“What is BGM Residential Holdings?”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“That’s just an investment vehicle.”
“Whose investment?”
“Our family’s.”
“No.”
I watched him through the front window.
He was pacing.
“Your family’s.”
He lowered his voice.
“My mom had an opportunity.”
“With my house?”
“You’re my wife.”
“And?”
He actually sounded confused.
“And we’re supposed to build things together.”
“You forged my signature.”
“I didn’t forge anything.”
“Then who did?”
His answer came too fast.
“Nobody.”
Rebecca looked at me and shook her head.
I ended the call.
At 8:41, the silver SUV left.
We followed it to a coffee shop in Redlands.
Rebecca approached the woman while I stayed near the entrance.
Her name was Melissa Grant.
She was not an architect.
She was a project coordinator for a private construction-finance firm.
When Rebecca explained that I owned the property, Melissa turned pale.
“I was told Charlotte Mercer had approved the project.”
“I’m Charlotte Mercer,” I said.
Melissa stared at me.
“No.”
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then she opened her portfolio.
Inside were copies of my driver’s license.
My tax statements.
My employer information.
A photograph of me.
And authorization forms carrying my forged signature.
Melissa looked sick.
“I met a woman claiming to be you two weeks ago.”
Rebecca and I exchanged a glance.
“What did she look like?” I asked.
Melissa hesitated.
“Late twenties.”
“Dark hair?”
“Yes.”
“About five-seven?”
“Yes.”
My heart began pounding.
I took out my phone and pulled up Hailey’s social media profile.
“Her?”
Melissa’s face answered before she spoke.
“Yes.”
My sister-in-law had pretended to be me.
And the fake renovation was only part of it.
Melissa slid another document across the table.
It was a preliminary construction budget.
Kitchen.
Pool.
Guest suite.
Garage conversion.
Total cost: $212,000.
But the requested financing was $480,000.
I pointed at the difference.
“Where was the rest going?”
Melissa slowly turned the page.
There were three transfers listed after closing.
$95,000 to a company called HLM Media.
$80,000 to Gertrude Mercer.
And $71,500 marked simply as consultant fee.
HLM.
Hailey Louise Mercer.
Rebecca leaned toward me.
“They weren’t renovating your house.”
I stared at the numbers.
“They were cashing it out.”
Melissa swallowed.
“There’s something else you should know.”
She pulled out the final page.
The borrower certification listed a second property as part of the financial package.
A condominium in Palm Springs.
I had never owned a condominium in Palm Springs.
May you like
But according to the paperwork, I was about to buy one.
And the buyer listed beside me was my husband.
