Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO CALLED ME PATHETIC CAME HOME EXPECTING HIS OLD LIFE TO STILL BE WAITING
At 10:41 that Thursday night, headlights swept across the living-room wall.
My sister Lauren stopped talking.
I stopped breathing.
For the last twelve hours, attorneys, fraud departments, a lender, and two separate financial institutions had occupied nearly every minute of my life.
But none of that prepared my body for the sight of Derek stepping out of a rideshare at the end of our driveway.
One suitcase.
Wrinkled black suit.
Same man from the chapel photograph.
Then Paige stepped out behind him.
She had changed out of the short white dress.
Now she wore jeans, a cream sweater, and an expression that looked much less victorious than it had beneath the neon lights in Las Vegas.
“Please tell me he is not actually bringing her inside,” Lauren whispered.
“He thinks he is.”
My voice sounded calmer than I felt.
The temporary domestic-relations order had been entered earlier that evening after my attorneys presented the suspected unauthorized credit application, the attempted use of the townhouse as collateral, the copied signature, and Derek’s written announcement that he intended to bring Paige into the residence while forcing me into the guest room.
The order did not declare him guilty of anything.
It did not give me his property.
It did not magically erase his ownership interest in the townhouse.
It gave me temporary exclusive use of the residence while the court examined the allegations and required both of us to preserve financial records and refrain from certain unilateral financial actions.
Boring legal language.
Beautiful legal language.
Derek reached the front door.
Inserted his key.
Turned it.
Nothing.
He tried again.
Then harder.
Lauren looked at me.
“You changed locks?”
“After the order.”
“With permission?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
I almost laughed.
Derek pounded on the door.
“Avery!”
The sound ran through me.
For six years, I had opened doors for that voice.
Sometimes literally.
Sometimes financially.
Sometimes emotionally.
That night I remained seated.
My phone rang.
Derek.
I let it ring.
Another knock.
“Avery, open the door!”
Paige stood behind him, arms folded tightly across her chest.
She looked toward the windows.
Saw me.
Our eyes met through glass.
I expected arrogance.
Instead I saw uncertainty.
Then Derek’s phone rang.
He stepped back and answered.
“What?”
Pause.
His face tightened.
“What do you mean I can’t enter my own house?”
Another pause.
His attorney, apparently.
Derek turned away.
“No, she can’t just—”
Pause.
His shoulders changed.
“What filing?”
Another silence.
Then the sentence I had been waiting for without knowing whether I would ever hear it.
“What credit application?”
Lauren looked at me.
“Do you believe that?”
“I don’t know.”
And I meant it.
Perhaps Derek was performing.
Perhaps someone else had submitted the application from a device linked to him.
Perhaps there was an explanation I had not seen yet.
My career had taught me something most angry people hate.
Suspicion is not proof simply because it feels correct.
Derek continued listening.
Then:
“A hundred and fifty thousand?”
Paige stepped away from him.
His voice rose.
“I never got any money!”
That part was true.
The lender froze the application before disbursement.
His attorney said something else.
Derek lowered his voice.
“No.”
Then:
“Why would she call the police?”
Paige stared at him.
That was the moment her expression truly changed.
She had known about the affair.
Obviously.
She believed she had married him.
But judging by the way she stepped farther down the driveway, the financial investigation was new.
Derek ended the call and walked toward the door again.
“Avery!”
I did not respond.
He pounded.
“You think this is funny?”
No.
Not even slightly.
“You cannot lock me out because you’re jealous!”
Lauren whispered:
“That one almost deserves an answer.”
“No.”
He continued.
“You want a divorce? Fine. We’ll get a divorce. But you don’t get to turn this into some financial witch hunt because I found someone who actually appreciates me!”
Still nothing.
Then Paige spoke.
“Derek.”
He turned.
She said something I could not hear.
He shook his head sharply.
She pointed toward the street.
He followed her several steps.
Their conversation became louder.
“What credit line?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“That didn’t sound like nothing.”
“It’s Avery doing what Avery does.”
“What does that mean?”
“Making everything about money.”
I nearly laughed.
A suspected unauthorized $150,000 credit application was, in fact, about money.
Paige said:
“You told me you two already settled the house.”
Derek froze.
So did I.
Lauren looked at me.
“He told her what?”
I reached for my phone and started recording through the window only after checking with Daniel Cho earlier that security footage and my own observations could be preserved lawfully from inside my residence.
Derek lowered his voice.
“We have.”
Paige shook her head.
“Then why does your lawyer say she has an order?”
“Because she filed something today.”
“Derek, you told me the divorce was done.”
My heartbeat changed.
There.
Not “almost.”
Not “in progress.”
Done.
Derek looked toward the house.
Then back at Paige.
“This isn’t the place.”
She laughed.
A short, disbelieving sound.
“You brought me here.”
“I know.”
“You told me I was moving in.”
“I know.”
“You told me this was your house.”
“It is.”
Paige stared at him.
Then she walked toward the sidewalk and pulled out her phone.
Derek followed.
“Who are you calling?”
“My sister.”
“Paige.”
“I’m not staying with you tonight.”
He reached toward her arm.
She stepped back.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Good.
A car arrived approximately seven minutes later.
Paige loaded her suitcase.
Derek stood beside her, talking rapidly.
She ignored most of it.
Before entering the car, she looked toward my window once.
Then she left.
Derek remained.
Alone.
One suitcase.
One phone.
One temporary order.
He looked smaller than he had in the photograph he sent nineteen hours earlier.
Not because he had less value as human being.
Because arrogance had been replaced by circumstances he did not control.
Finally, he called me again.
This time he left voicemail.
“Avery, I know you’re listening.”
I was.
“You’ve had your little moment.”
My eyebrows rose.
Little moment.
“This doesn’t have to become ugly.”
Too late.
“We can deal with the house.”
“We can deal with the accounts.”
“I’ll give you space.”
“But you need to stop involving lenders and police before you ruin both of us.”
Both.
Interesting.
Then:
“And whatever Paige told you, she is confused.”
I stared at the phone.
He continued:
“I was angry when I sent that text.”
The message.
The photograph.
The white dress.
The year-long affair.
Angry.
“She means nothing compared with six years of marriage.”
I almost admired the speed.
Less than twenty-four hours earlier, Paige was “someone better.”
Now she meant nothing.
Derek had not changed.
The audience had.
Finally:
“Call me.”
He hung up.
I saved the voicemail.
Forwarded it to counsel.
Then I looked at Lauren.
She had tears in her eyes.
“Why are you crying?”
“Because I spent three years thinking he was charming.”
“So did I.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You loved him. I had less excuse.”
I reached for her hand.
“We’re not doing that.”
“What?”
“Retroactive genius.”
She frowned.
“Everyone thinks betrayal should have been obvious after it happens.”
“It wasn’t.”
“He was my husband.”
“He was your brother-in-law.”
“We believed what we had evidence to believe.”
Lauren smiled weakly.
“You sound like work.”
“Work is currently keeping me sane.”
At 11:32 p.m., Derek finally left in another rideshare.
He did not know where Paige had gone.
He did not know whether the lender had enough evidence to accuse him.
He did not know what his employer was reviewing.
And he definitely did not know that the $11,000 of joint spending connected to Paige was only the beginning of what forensic accounting would uncover.
Neither did I.
At midnight, Rachel Kim called.
“I have something.”
“What?”
“Your lender sent the preserved application package.”
“And?”
“There’s an uploaded authorization letter.”
My stomach tightened.
“What kind?”
“A letter represented as coming from you.”
“What does it say?”
Rachel paused.
Then read:
“I authorize my husband, Derek Sloan, to coordinate all financing documentation related to our household assets and execute preliminary submissions on my behalf.”
I stood slowly.
“I never wrote that.”
“I know.”
“Signature?”
“Yes.”
“Mine?”
“It appears to be a copied image.”
The same signature style I used on a tax document two years earlier.
Rachel continued:
“There’s metadata.”
“What?”
“The PDF was created on a laptop registered to Derek’s employer.”
I stopped breathing.
Not proof he personally created it.
But a direction.
Then Rachel said:
“There’s more.”
Of course there was.
“The file name is Avery_Authority_Final2.”
Final2.
Meaning perhaps there had been a Final1.
Or a draft.
Or nothing.
We would not assume.
But for the first time that night, I understood why Derek’s lawyer had sounded serious enough to send him away from the townhouse instead of encouraging a confrontation.
His Las Vegas photograph had exposed an affair.
The credit documents were beginning to expose something more dangerous.
For years, I had been paying Derek’s debts because I thought he was financially careless.
Now I had to consider another possibility.
May you like
Maybe he had not simply been careless.
Maybe he had been practicing with my money so long that he had finally convinced himself my permission was optional.
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