Chapter 2 - THE WOMAN WHO KNEW TOO MUCH
The first thing Eleanor Shaw asked me was not whether I wanted a divorce.
It was whether Vincent had ever asked me to sign anything after Lucas was born.
I stared at her message on my phone.
Do not sign anything he gives you. Do not tell him what you know yet.
Then I typed:
Why?
Her reply came almost immediately.
Because the question isn't only whether Vincent is cheating. I think he may be preparing for a financial separation long before you knew you needed one.
My heart started pounding.
I had spent weeks documenting Vincent's lies because I wanted proof that I wasn't imagining things.
I had never considered that he might have been documenting me too.
I called Eleanor.
She answered on the second ring.
“How much do you know about your husband's finances?”
“Not much.”
“Does he control all the household accounts?”
“Yes.”
“Your name is on the house?”
“I think so.”
There was a pause.
“You think?”
I closed my eyes.
That was the problem.
For five years, I had trusted Vincent to handle everything because he was the one who understood the numbers.
Restaurants.
Warehouses.
Construction companies.
Security firms.
Investments.
I knew the names of some businesses but had never seen a complete list.
“I need time,” I whispered.
“You need information.”
I looked through the nursery window.
Lucas was sleeping peacefully beneath the blue phototherapy lights.
“My son is fifteen days old.”
“I know.”
“I almost died.”
“I know.”
“My husband missed it.”
Another pause.
“And now you have to protect yourself without letting him know you're doing it.”
Her words felt harsh.
But they were also the first words anyone had said that made me feel like I still had a future.
That afternoon, my mother arrived carrying soup and a small overnight bag.
Diane took one look at my face.
“What did Eleanor say?”
“She thinks Vincent may be moving money.”
Mom stopped.
“Did he?”
“I don't know.”
“Then we're going to find out.”
I looked at her.
“You're not angry?”
“I am furious.”
She placed the soup on the counter.
“But anger won't protect you.”
She sat beside me.
“You almost died.”
“I know.”
“And while you were fighting to stay alive, that man was somewhere else.”
I swallowed.
“He came back.”
“When?”
“The next morning.”
Mom's face hardened.
“What did he say?”
“Asked where the baby was.”
She stared at me.
Then quietly said, “That's not a husband.”
I looked away.
I wasn't ready to hear it.
A few minutes later, the nanny, Marisol, came downstairs carrying a basket of baby clothes.
She stopped when she saw my mother.
Then she looked at me.
“You wanted to know something?”
I nodded.
Marisol had worked for us for three years.
She had helped raise Lucas since the day we brought him home.
She rarely spoke about Vincent.
That was one reason I trusted her.
“I kept something,” she said.
She reached into the basket and removed a small envelope.
It was addressed to me.
No return name.
“What is it?”
“I found it inside Mr. Carter's study last week.”
My stomach tightened.
“You went into his study?”
“To dust.”
She lowered her voice.
“It was behind a book.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Vincent stood outside a restaurant.
Beside him was a blonde woman I had never seen.
She was holding his arm.
The photograph wasn't romantic enough to prove an affair.
But it wasn't innocent either.
On the back was a date.
Three months earlier.
And beneath it, one sentence.
She knows about the other account.
I looked at Marisol.
“What other account?”
“I don't know.”
Mom took the photograph.
“Who took this?”
“Someone left it on my car.”
My head began to spin.
“Why didn't you show me?”
“Because Mr. Carter told me you were recovering and didn't need stress.”
That sounded like Vincent.
Always protecting me from information I apparently couldn't handle.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was another mark.
A tiny handwritten number.
814.
Eleanor answered immediately when I sent her a picture.
Do not contact the woman.
I typed:
Who is she?
Her answer took longer.
Then:
Her name is Camille Reed. She worked for one of Vincent's private investment companies.
I stared at the screen.
“How do you know?”
She called.
“Because her name appears in documents I've seen before.”
“What documents?”
“Transfers.”
My breathing slowed.
“What transfers?”
“Large ones.”
I felt a cold pressure in my chest.
“Could she be the woman he was with?”
“Yes.”
“Could she be his affair partner?”
“Possibly.”
“Then why did you say not to contact her?”
“Because if she's involved in the financial structure, she may know what Vincent is doing. You don't want her warned.”
I looked at Lucas.
He was tiny.
Fragile.
Completely dependent on me.
“I don't know how to do this.”
“You don't need to know everything today.”
“What do I need?”
“Your records.”
“Which records?”
“Bank statements. Property documents. Tax returns. Insurance policies. Business agreements. Anything Vincent ever asked you to sign.”
I thought of a folder in our bedroom closet.
Last week, Vincent had handed me several pages.
“Just routine insurance updates,” he'd said.
I had signed them while holding Lucas.
My stomach dropped.
“I signed something.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Eleanor's voice became very quiet.
“Find a copy.”
I went upstairs.
The folder was gone.
I searched the closet.
Nothing.
Then I checked the desk.
Nothing.
My hands started shaking.
Someone had removed it.
I called Vincent.
He answered immediately.
“Hey.”
His voice was warm.
Almost loving.
“Where are the insurance papers you asked me to sign?”
Silence.
“What insurance papers?”
“The ones from last week.”
Another pause.
“I'll look.”
“Vincent.”
“Yes?”
“Why did you need my signature?”
“I told you. Routine paperwork.”
“Then why can't you find it?”
His tone changed.
“You're recovering. Don't stress yourself.”
I closed my eyes.
“I want copies.”
“Of course.”
“Today.”
“Tomorrow.”
“No.”
I heard something in the background.
Music.
Then a woman's voice.
Vincent went silent.
I knew that voice.
I had heard it once before.
At the hospital.
The perfume.
My heart started pounding.
“Who's with you?”
Nobody answered.
Then Vincent said quietly:
“I'll come home tonight.”
The call ended.
I stood alone in the nursery.
Then Marisol appeared in the doorway.
She looked frightened.
“Mrs. Carter?”
“What?”
“I don't know if I should tell you this.”
“Please.”
She swallowed.
“The woman in the photograph came here two nights ago.”
My stomach dropped.
“Why?”
“She asked to see Mr. Carter.”
“Was he here?”
“No.”
“Then what did she do?”
Marisol looked toward the hallway.
“She left something.”
“What?”
“A small leather watch.”
She reached into her pocket.
Then placed it in my hand.
It was Vincent's.
The watch he never took off.
May you like
And engraved on the back were four words.
For what comes next.
