PART 3
I removed the chain.
“Come in.”
They stepped into the foyer.
Officer Morales looked around the house.
I noticed his eyes pause on the freshly installed locks.
“You had the locks changed last night?”
“Yes.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I almost laughed.
Because my husband had texted me from Mexico that he had abandoned me for my best friend.
Because they had apparently decided my money was theirs to spend.
Because my husband had told me they were never coming back.
Instead, I simply said,
“My husband left me.”
Detective Harris pulled out a small notebook.
“Yesterday?”
“Last night.”
“With whom?”
“My best friend.”
His pen stopped moving.
“Your best friend?”
“Yes.”
“What is her name?”
“Rachel Monroe.”
The detective wrote it down.
Then he looked at me.
“Did your husband tell you where they were going?”
“Cancun.”
“And did he tell you he intended to return?”
“No.”
“What exactly did he say?”
I hesitated.
Then I retrieved my phone from the kitchen counter.
I opened the message.
I ran away with your best friend. We’re never coming back.
I handed him the phone.
He read it.
Then he read it again.
Officer Morales leaned over his shoulder.
Neither man smiled.
Neither looked surprised.
That frightened me more than anything else.
“What?” I asked.
Detective Harris returned the phone.
“We need to ask you a few questions about your husband’s financial activity.”
“I already canceled his cards.”
His eyes sharpened.
“When?”
“Shortly after midnight.”
“Why?”
“Because they were using my accounts.”
“What kind of accounts?”
“My credit cards. Joint checking. Several authorized cards.”
“Did you transfer any money?”
“No.”
“Did you move any money from your husband’s accounts?”
“No.”
“Did you access his computer?”
“No.”
“Did you destroy or alter any records?”
“No.”
He closed the notebook.
“Mrs. Carter, your husband didn’t just leave you.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
“What do you mean?”
Detective Harris took a slow breath.
“At approximately 11:40 last night, the Cancun police contacted our department.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the kitchen island.
“Why?”
“They received a report involving a man matching your husband’s description.”
“Daniel?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of report?”
The detective hesitated.
“Fraud.”
I stared at him.
Then something inside me went completely still.
“Fraud?”
“Financial fraud.”
I looked toward the window.
The sky outside was pale gray, the neighborhood just beginning to wake.
“This is impossible.”
Detective Harris studied my face.
“Why?”
“Because Daniel isn’t the one with the money.”
The detective’s expression changed.
“What do you mean?”
“The house is mine. Most of the investment accounts are mine. The credit cards are mine. The business account is mine.”
“And your husband had access?”
“Authorized access.”
“Could he withdraw money?”
“Within certain limits.”
“What limits?”
I told him.
He wrote everything down.
Then came the question I wasn’t expecting.
“Mrs. Carter, do you have any reason to believe your husband may have been planning to disappear before yesterday?”
I thought about the past three months.
The late-night phone calls.
The sudden interest in my investment portfolio.
The questions about my life insurance.
The strange conversation Daniel had started two weeks earlier.
If something happened to you, would Rachel be able to help me manage things?
At the time, I’d thought it was an insensitive question.
Now it sounded like a warning I had been too distracted to understand.
“Yes,” I whispered.
Detective Harris looked up.
“I think he planned this.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“What makes you say that?”
I walked to the dining room.
There was a framed photograph sitting on the sideboard.
Daniel.
Rachel.
Me.
Three friends at a charity gala three years earlier.
I picked it up.
“Because Daniel stopped asking me where I was going.”
The detective waited.
“He started asking where my documents were.”
His pen stopped again.
“What documents?”
“Property deeds. Investment statements. Insurance policies. Business records.”
“And did you tell him?”
“Some.”
“Where are they now?”
“Locked in my office.”
“Can we see them?”
I looked at him.
“Why?”
“Because we believe someone may have been attempting to access your assets using forged documentation.”
My stomach dropped.
“Forged?”
Detective Harris nodded.
“We have reason to believe your husband and another person may have been preparing paperwork connected to your property.”
I walked toward the staircase.
My feet felt strangely heavy.
“What property?”
“Your house.”
I stopped.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
“My house?”
“Yes.”
I turned slowly.
“My house is paid off.”
“I understand.”
“My name is the only name on the deed.”
“I understand.”
“And Daniel couldn’t sell it.”
“Not legally.”
That one word hit me harder than anything else.
Legally.
I went upstairs.
The officers followed.
I unlocked my home office.
The room looked exactly as I had left it.
Desk.
Computer.
Filing cabinets.
A small safe.
I opened the bottom drawer.
The folder containing the original deed was gone.
I stared at the empty space.
“No.”
Detective Harris stepped closer.
“When did you last see it?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Who had access?”
“Daniel.”
“And Rachel?”
I swallowed.
“Rachel had been here several times.”
Officer Morales quietly photographed the empty drawer.
I opened another cabinet.
My investment statements were there.
Insurance policies.
Tax records.
Business documents.
But one folder was missing.
My estate planning file.
My pulse began pounding.
“That’s missing too.”
Detective Harris looked at me.
“What was inside?”
“My will.”
“And?”
“Life insurance information.”
“Anything else?”
“Beneficiary documents.”
The detective and officer exchanged another glance.
Then Detective Harris said something that made my blood run cold.
“Mrs. Carter, I need you to sit down.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
“Please.”
I sat.
He remained standing.
“We need to tell you something before you hear it from someone else.”
I looked up.
“Your husband didn’t simply leave the country.”
I said nothing.
“He appears to have been preparing to make it look like you authorized a transfer of your assets.”
My mouth went dry.
“What transfer?”
“An offshore account.”
“How much?”
“Approximately $1.8 million.”
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the number was too absurd to process.
“Daniel couldn’t move $1.8 million.”
“He may have believed he could.”
“How?”
The detective reached into his folder.
He pulled out several printed pages.
Then he placed them on my dining table.
My signature was at the bottom.
I stared at it.
The signature looked like mine.
Almost perfect.
But I knew immediately it wasn’t.
“I didn’t sign this.”
Detective Harris nodded.
“We know.”
I looked at him sharply.
“How?”
