Chapter 5 - CHRISTMAS MORNING
We spent Christmas Eve in a hotel.
Not an expensive one.
I still couldn't make myself behave like a millionaire.
I bought the children grilled cheese sandwiches from the restaurant downstairs, and the hotel receptionist found two small wrapped toys from a charity donation box after hearing we had arrived without Christmas presents.
Noah got a toy truck.
Sophie got a stuffed fox.
They thought it was wonderful.
After they fell asleep, I sat beside the window reading my mother's letter again.
Three million dollars.
It still didn't feel real.
What felt real was Mark's final text at 11:38 p.m.
You have until morning to apologize.
I didn't answer.
At 7:12 Christmas morning, he called.
I declined.
He called again.
Then Diane called.
Then Mark.
Then Diane.
At 7:26, Rebecca texted me:
Do not respond. Call me.
I stepped into the bathroom so I wouldn't wake the children.
“What happened?”
“The bank froze the attempted transaction.”
“I expected that.”
“Mark knows.”
“How?”
“Because apparently he tried to check the status this morning.”
Of course he did.
Christmas morning.
Before checking whether his children had somewhere warm to sleep, Mark had checked whether my money had arrived.
Rebecca continued.
“He also contacted my office claiming the transfer was authorized as part of your divorce settlement.”
“It wasn't.”
“I know. I asked him to provide the signed agreement.”
My stomach tightened.
“And?”
“He sent it.”
“The forged one?”
“Yes.”
Mark had just voluntarily sent my attorney evidence containing another fake signature.
For years, I had thought Mark was smarter than me because he always sounded certain.
That morning I finally understood the difference between confidence and intelligence.
“What do I do now?”
“Nothing impulsive.”
“I wasn't planning to.”
“Good. The bank's fraud department will preserve its records. I'm preparing filings concerning the financial disclosures and access to your personal property.”
“What about the kids?”
“We handle that separately and properly.”
I looked through the bathroom doorway.
Sophie was asleep with one arm around Noah.
“Rebecca?”
“Yes?”
“I want everything documented.”
“It will be.”
“Every message.”
“Yes.”
“Every signature.”
“Yes.”
“Every time he tried to access Mom's account.”
A pause.
“Claire, that's exactly what we're going to do.”
When I left the bathroom, Sophie was awake.
“Is it Christmas?”
I smiled.
“Yeah.”
“Did Santa know we changed hotels?”
I nearly cried.
“He figured it out.”
We opened the tiny gifts.
We ate terrible vending-machine cookies.
Noah drove his toy truck across the comforter.
For thirty minutes, I allowed myself not to think about Mark.
Then someone knocked.
My entire body stiffened.
Sophie noticed.
“Mom?”
“Stay here.”
I checked through the peephole.
Rebecca stood outside.
I opened the door.
She carried my gray document case.
I stared at it.
“How did you get that?”
“Mark's attorney arranged return of several personal items after I made it very clear that retaining estate documents was going to become part of today's problem.”
I took the case.
The lock had been damaged.
Someone had opened it.
Inside, folders were out of order.
My mother's estate envelope was missing.
But Mark had made a mistake.
He had taken the envelope.
He hadn't known about the safe-deposit box.
Mom had anticipated him four years earlier.
Rebecca watched me search.
“Something missing?”
“Yes.”
“Important?”
I looked at the letter in my handbag.
“Not anymore.”
Then I noticed something tucked beneath an insurance folder.
A photocopy.
Not mine.
I pulled it free.
It appeared to be part of a financial application.
Mark's name was visible.
So was Diane's.
And beside them was mine.
Another signature.
Another imitation.
But this document was older.
Much older.
The date was from eighteen months before our divorce.
I looked at Rebecca.
“What is this?”
She took it.
Her expression changed.
“Where did you find it?”
“In my case.”
She read further.
Then sat down.
That frightened me.
“Rebecca?”
“Claire, this isn't connected to yesterday's transfer.”
“What is it?”
She looked up.
“This appears to involve a line of credit opened against an asset associated with you.”
“How much?”
She didn't answer immediately.
“Rebecca.”
“Over a million dollars.”
My knees weakened.
“But I didn't own anything worth—”
I stopped.
Mom's account.
Rebecca looked at me.
“If this is authentic, Mark may have been trying to leverage your inheritance long before the divorce.”
“How could he do that without access?”
“He couldn't legally.”
The last word mattered.
Legally.
My phone began ringing.
Mark again.
This time I answered.
Rebecca's eyes widened, but I put the call on speaker and said nothing.
Mark spoke first.
“Claire, whatever the bank told you, you're misunderstanding it.”
I stayed silent.
“Claire?”
Nothing.
His breathing changed.
“Where are you?”
I looked at my children.
At my mother's letter.
At the damaged document case.
At the photocopy carrying a signature I had never written.
Then I finally spoke.
“Merry Christmas, Mark.”
I ended the call.
Seconds later, another message arrived.
Then another.
Then another.
I didn't open them.
Because suddenly the three million dollars wasn't the biggest discovery my mother had left me.
Someone had been using my identity before our marriage even ended.
May you like
And judging from the paperwork in my hands, the attempted $750,000 transfer on Christmas Eve wasn't the beginning of Mark's plan.
It was the moment he became desperate enough to finish it.
