PART 4 — MY FATHER’S LAST WARNING

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I closed my eyes.
“Please don’t lose it.”
“We won’t.”
The call ended.
I sat perfectly still.
Elaine came around the desk.

“Claire.”
“Nolan was there that night.”
“I know.”
“He told me Dad had a heart attack.”
“That may still be true.”
“He handled everything.”
“Yes.”
“He took Dad’s files.”
“Yes.”
“He took Dad’s phone.”
Elaine said nothing.
I looked at her.
“And now that phone is sitting inside a house Nolan secretly shared with another woman.”

She nodded slowly. For the first time since this nightmare began, Elaine looked genuinely shaken. I remembered the hospital corridor. White walls. Bright lights. A vending machine humming beside two plastic chairs. Nolan’s arm around my shoulders. His voice telling me the doctors had done everything they could.His hand taking

my phone because I couldn’t stop shaking. His voice saying, “I’ll handle everything.” I had thought those were the words of a loving man. Now they sounded like a confession.

My new phone rang. Unknown number. Elaine looked at me. “Don’t assume it’s Nolan.” I answered. “Hello?” “Claire Carter?” “Yes.” “This is Detective Marcus Bell with Austin Police.” My heart raced. “We’ve taken over the Weatherstone scene.” “Did you find Vanessa?” “Not yet.” “Is she alive?” “We don’t know.” I swallowed. “And my father’s phone?” “I’m looking at it right now.” I gripped the table. “Did you hear the recording?” “Yes.” My throat tightened. “Tell me.” “Mrs. Carter, I’d prefer to do this in person.” “Please.” Silence. Then: “Your father sounded frightened.” I shut my eyes. “He mentioned your husband several times.” “What did Nolan do?” “We’re still verifying portions.” “What did Dad say?” The detective paused. “He said he had discovered unauthorized transfers from one of his business accounts.” My eyes opened. Elaine immediately started writing. “How much?” “Your father mentioned approximately eighty-seven thousand dollars.” I stared at Elaine. “Who transferred it?” “Nolan Carter.” My stomach twisted. “When?” “Several weeks before your father died.” “But Nolan didn’t control Dad’s accounts.” “That’s one of the things we’re investigating.” I remembered Nolan helping Dad install accounting software. Dad hated computers. Nolan had spent an entire weekend at the house showing him online banking. At the time, I had thought it was generous. “What else is on the recording?” Detective Bell inhaled. “Your father says he confronted Mr. Carter.” My skin prickled. “About stealing?” “Yes.” “What happened?” “He says Mr. Carter denied it.” “And?” “Your father then says he had obtained documents showing that Mr. Carter had been using information from one of the Hayes companies to apply for credit.” I looked at Elaine. “The identity theft started before Dad died.” “It appears possible.” “What did Dad plan to do?” “He said he was going to speak to you first, then contact police the following morning.” My eyes filled. Dad had called me. Three hours before he died. And I hadn’t answered. “Did he say why he was afraid?” Another pause. “Yes.” I could barely breathe. “Why?” “Because Mr. Carter had come to his house.” Everything inside me froze. “When?” “According to the recording, Nolan arrived shortly before your father started recording.” I whispered: “That night?” “Yes.” “But Nolan was with me.” “Were you together the entire evening?” I opened my mouth. Then stopped. Dinner. We had gone to a restaurant downtown. At one point Nolan left. He said he had to take a work call. How long? Twenty minutes? Thirty? I couldn’t remember. My pulse thundered. “No.” “What?” “He left the restaurant.” “For how long?” “I don’t know.” Elaine stared at me. “He said it was work.” Detective Bell’s voice stayed neutral. “Do you remember what time?” “Around seven-thirty, maybe.” The detective was silent. “What?” “Your father’s recording started at 7:52 p.m.” My stomach dropped. “No.” “Mrs. Carter—” “No. Dad lived almost twenty minutes away.” Elaine was already checking a map. From the restaurant to Dad’s house: seventeen minutes. My hands went numb. “He could have made it.” “Yes.” “But Nolan came back.” “What time?” “I don’t know.” “Think.” I closed my eyes. The restaurant. Red booths. Nolan’s steak. My pasta. A waiter bringing dessert menus. Nolan checking his watch. I remembered being annoyed because he had disappeared before our entrées arrived. “The food came while he was gone.” “How long was he away?” “Maybe forty-five minutes.” The detective didn’t answer. My heartbeat became painful. “What did Dad say happened when Nolan arrived?” Detective Bell hesitated. “Your father says Nolan demanded the documents.” “And Dad refused?” “Yes.” “What happened after that?” “The recording becomes difficult to hear.” “Why?” “There’s movement. Your father appears to put the phone somewhere.” I gripped the table. “Then what?” “We hear two male voices arguing.” I covered my mouth. Elaine reached for my hand. “What are they saying?” “Your father accuses Mr. Carter of stealing from him.” “And Nolan?” “Mr. Carter appears to say your father is misunderstanding a business arrangement.” Of course. Even then. Corporate language. Misunderstanding. Arrangement. Just like my marriage. “Keep going.” “Your father says he is calling the police.” My stomach tightened. “And?” “There’s a noise.” “What noise?” “A struggle.” I stopped breathing. “Then your father says, ‘Get out of my house.’” Tears spilled down my face. “And Nolan?” Detective Bell was silent for several seconds. Then: “A male voice says, ‘You’re making this harder than it needs to be.’” Every hair on my arms rose. That sounded exactly like Nolan. Not a threat. Not anger. A sentence delivered like policy. “What happened next?” “There’s another sound.” “What kind?” “We don’t know yet.” “Then?” “Your father starts coughing.” My fingers dug into Elaine’s hand. “Coughing?” “Yes.” “He had a heart attack.” “That was the official cause of death.” “Was it wrong?” “We don’t know.” “What does the recording say?” The detective’s voice lowered. “Your father says something that may be important.” “What?” “He says, ‘What did you put in that?’” The entire room went silent. I couldn’t move. “What did you put in what?” “We don’t know.” “No.” “Mrs. Carter—” “No, tell me.” “We hear what sounds like a glass hitting the floor.” A glass. I remembered Dad drinking iced tea every night. Unsweetened. One lemon slice. Always in the same tall glass. My breathing became shallow. “What happens after that?” “Your father struggles to breathe.” My chest tightened painfully. “And Nolan?” “The other man says very little.” “What does he say?” Detective Bell paused. “Your father asks him to call an ambulance.” I covered my face. “And?” Another pause. Too long. “Does Nolan call?” “No.” I lowered my hands. “What?” “The recording continues for approximately six minutes.” Six minutes. Dad had been alive for six minutes asking for help. “What was Nolan doing?” “We hear movement.” “What movement?” “Drawers opening. Papers being handled.” I stared at Elaine. “No.” “Mrs. Carter—” “He searched the house while Dad was dying.” “We can’t state that conclusively yet.” “But that’s what happened.” “We are investigating.” “What does Dad say?” “Near the end, he says your name.” My heart broke. “What does he say?” Detective Bell spoke gently. “He says, ‘Claire, I’m sorry.’” I bent forward. A sound came out of me that I didn’t recognize. Elaine wrapped her arms around my shoulders. I cried for the father who had called me. For the voicemail I never finished. For the six years I had believed he simply dropped dead alone. He hadn’t been alone. The man I married had been there. Eventually I forced myself upright. “What happens at the end?” The detective hesitated. “There are footsteps.” “Leaving?” “Yes.” “And Dad?” “No further speech.” I wiped my face. “What time does the recording end?” “8:11.” I remembered Nolan returning to the restaurant. His face slightly flushed. His jacket unbuttoned. I had teased him. “You look like you ran a marathon.” He had laughed. Traffic, he said. He had sat down across from me and finished his steak. At 8:47, my father’s neighbor called 911 after seeing Dad collapsed near the back door. Nolan drove me to the hospital. Nolan held me while the doctor said Dad was gone. Nolan organized the funeral. Nolan collected the estate documents. And nine months later, I married him. I had married the last man who saw my father alive. Possibly the man who killed him. “Detective.” “Yes?” “Arrest him.” “I understand how you feel.” “Then arrest him.” “We need evidence connecting the second voice conclusively to Mr. Carter.” “I know his voice.” “That matters, but we need more.” “What more?” “Phone records. Location data. Toxicology possibilities. Financial evidence. The original medical records.” “My father was buried six years ago.” “Yes.” I knew what he was going to say before he said it. “We may need to seek an exhumation order.” My stomach turned. Elaine whispered: “Oh God.” I looked out the window. Dad had hated cemeteries. He once told me, “When I’m gone, don’t waste time talking to a stone. Go eat barbecue and remember me properly.” Now strangers might have to open his grave because I had married Nolan. “I’ll sign whatever you need.” “We’ll contact you.” “What about Vanessa?” “We’re treating her disappearance seriously.” “Could Nolan have taken her?” “That’s one possibility.” My phone buzzed. A text. Unknown number. I almost ignored it. Then I saw the photograph attached. Vanessa. She was sitting in the passenger seat of a car. Her eyes were wide. There was a dark mark along her cheek. Below the picture: STOP TALKING TO POLICE. I immediately showed Elaine. “Detective Bell.” “Yes?” “I just received a message.” “What does it say?” I read it. His voice changed instantly. “Do not respond.” “There’s a picture of Vanessa.” “Forward it to me now.” I did. “Can you identify the vehicle?” Only part of the interior was visible. Black leather. Silver trim. I zoomed in. Then I saw something hanging from the mirror. A tiny wooden cross. My stomach dropped. “I know the car.” “What?” “It’s Nolan’s truck.” “What make?” “Black Ford F-150.” “Plate?” I gave it to him. “We’re issuing information now.” The call ended. Elaine took a long breath. “Claire, you need protection.” “I’m not hiding.” “This is not about bravery.” “I already spent five years hiding without realizing it.” “Then don’t give Nolan another advantage.” She was right. I hated that she was right. The police arranged for me to stay somewhere undisclosed. Raymond’s cottage was no longer safe. Before leaving Elaine’s office, I returned to my FINAL AUDIT note. Laundry soap: $1.94. Fake rent: $54,000. Unauthorized loan: $875,000. Transfer to Nolan: $612,000. Known inheritance: approximately $4.76 million. Possible murder of Arthur Hayes: under investigation. I stared at the last line. Then added: Missing woman: Vanessa Reed. This was no longer an audit. It was a map of Nolan’s destruction. At 2:16 p.m., Detective Bell called again. “We found the truck.” My heart jumped. “Where?” “Abandoned near Bastrop.” “Vanessa?” “No.” “Nolan?” “No.” “Blood?” “We’re still processing the vehicle.” “Anything inside?” “Some clothing. Two phones. Cash.” “How much?” “Approximately thirty-four thousand dollars.” “And?” “A passport.” “Whose?” “Nolan’s.” I frowned. “He left his passport?” “Yes.” That made no sense. If he planned to flee to Belize, why leave his passport? “Was Vanessa’s there?” “No.” Then Detective Bell said: “There was also a storage-unit key.” Elaine looked at me. “What storage unit?” “We’re tracing it.” Three hours later, they found it. A facility north of Austin. Unit 214. Registered to Hearthstone Residential Management. Detective Bell asked me one question before police opened it. “Mrs. Carter, did your father own a red metal toolbox?” I smiled through tears. “Yes.” “Old?” “Very.” “Three drawers?” “Yes.” “Hayes Refrigeration sticker on the side?” My heart started pounding. “Why?” “It’s inside this storage unit.” Nolan had kept my father’s toolbox for six years. Along with seventeen boxes of financial records. Dad’s laptop. His old external hard drives. Original trust documents. Business ledgers. And a sealed envelope. My name was written across the front. CLAIRE. The envelope was dated two days before Dad died. Police photographed it before opening it. Inside were six pages handwritten by my father. Detective Bell read them to me over the phone. Dad had discovered Nolan stealing. Not $87,000. That was only what he had found initially. Nolan had been siphoning money through fake vendor invoices connected to Dad’s warehouse businesses for almost eighteen months. Total suspected amount: $246,000. Dad had planned to tell me. He had also changed his trust. Again. Elaine interrupted. “Changed it how?” Detective Bell read: “If Nolan Carter is married to or financially connected with Claire at the time of my death, he is to have no direct or indirect authority over any trust property.” Elaine closed her eyes. Dad knew. Maybe not everything. But enough. The letter continued. “Claire will probably defend him because she loves him. That is one of the things I admire most about my daughter and one of the things I fear someone could use against her.” I started crying again. Dad knew me better than I knew myself. Then Detective Bell reached the final paragraph. “Claire, if you are reading this, I may not have gotten the chance to tell you myself. Please remember that trusting somebody does not make you foolish. Continuing to trust them after you know the truth does.” I pressed my fist against my mouth. “I love you. Dad.” For a long time, nobody spoke. Then Elaine asked: “Was that the only letter?” “No.” Detective Bell’s voice became strange. “There’s another envelope.” “To whom?”

“Nolan Carter.” My eyes widened. “What does it say?” “We opened it as part of the investigation.” “And?” “Arthur tells Nolan he knows about the theft.” My chest tightened. “He tells him to return every dollar and stay away from you.” “And then?” “Your father says he has copies of everything stored somewhere Nolan will never find.” I looked at the storage unit. Nolan eventually had found it. But apparently not everything. “What did Dad mean?” “We’re not sure.” Then Detective Bell said: “There’s one line underlined twice.” “What?” He read it. “The real ledger is with Martin.” Elaine frowned. “Who is Martin?” I knew. Or at least, I knew one Martin. “Martin Delgado.” Dad’s oldest friend. They had worked together for nearly twenty years before Martin retired to New Mexico. I hadn’t spoken to him since the funeral. “Do you have his contact information?” “Maybe.” I searched my old contacts. Nothing. Then I remembered a Christmas card. Dad kept every Christmas card in the bottom drawer of his desk. The desk Nolan had removed from the house after Dad died. He told me it was damaged. “Where is Dad’s desk?” I asked Elaine. She looked confused. “What?” “Nolan got rid of it.” “Maybe he didn’t.” We called Detective Bell. An hour later, officers searched the Weatherstone house again. Upstairs. Garage. Attic. Nothing. Then one officer noticed scratches on the floor in the detached backyard shed. Under a tarp was my father’s desk. Nolan hadn’t thrown it away. He had hidden it. Inside the bottom drawer were Christmas cards. Martin Delgado. Albuquerque, New Mexico. Detective Bell called the number associated with the address. Disconnected. Police requested assistance from local authorities. At 7:41 p.m., a New Mexico officer knocked on Martin Delgado’s door. No answer. His neighbor said Martin had moved three years ago. No forwarding address. Dead end. Or so we thought. At 8:03, my new phone rang. Unknown number. I answered cautiously. “Hello?” An elderly man said: “Claire?” My heart stopped. “Who is this?” “It’s Martin.” I stood. “How did you get this number?” “I’ve been trying to reach you since this morning.” “Why?” “I saw Nolan on the news.” Apparently police had circulated his photograph locally after Vanessa’s disappearance. Martin’s voice shook. “Claire, listen to me.” “I’m listening.” “Your father gave me something before he died.” “The ledger?” Silence. “How do you know about that?” “Police found Dad’s letter.” Martin exhaled slowly. “Oh, Arthur.” “Do you still have it?” “Yes.” My heart raced. “What is it?” “Proof.” “Of Nolan stealing?” “Much more than that.” Elaine moved closer. “Martin, where are you?” “I’m in Colorado now.” “Can you send the ledger?” “I can send copies.” “Do it now.” “I will.” Then he said: “But Claire, there’s something your father never got the chance to tell you.” I closed my eyes. “What?” “Nolan wasn’t working alone.” My skin prickled. “Who helped him?” Martin was silent. “Martin?” “Your father thought someone inside his own business was giving Nolan access.” “Who?” “He never proved it before he died.” “Do you know?” “I do now.” My pulse hammered. “Tell me.” Martin took a shaky breath. “The vendor accounts Nolan used were approved by someone with authority over Arthur’s companies.” “Who had authority besides Dad?” “One person.” “Who?” “Your father’s accountant.” I remembered him. Thomas Vance. Quiet. Gray hair. Always carrying a brown briefcase. He had attended Dad’s funeral. He had hugged me. He had told me my father was “one of the finest men he ever knew.” “What does Thomas have to do with this?” Martin said: “He created the fake companies.” My stomach dropped. “And according to the ledger, he received thirty percent of every dollar Nolan stole.” Elaine wrote the name down. “Where is Thomas now?” “I don’t know.” Elaine searched. Her face changed. “What?” She turned the laptop toward me. Thomas Vance had died eleven months ago. Car accident. Single vehicle. Late at night. No witnesses. I felt cold. “Martin, did Dad think Nolan would hurt him?” “Yes.” The answer came immediately. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because after Arthur died, Nolan called me.” My blood froze. “What did he say?” “He told me Arthur had been confused near the end.” “Dad wasn’t confused.” “I know.” “What else?” “He said if I upset you with accusations, he would sue me and make sure I lost everything.” “You believed him?” “I had no proof then.” “But you had the ledger.” “Not yet.” “What?” Martin paused. “Arthur mailed it to me.” “When?” “The morning before he died.” I closed my eyes. Dad had known. He had been preparing. “The package arrived three days after the funeral.” “Why didn’t you go to police?” “I tried.” “What happened?” “They asked why Arthur hadn’t reported it himself. Nolan had already told everyone your father was becoming paranoid about money.” My jaw tightened. Of course. Nolan had prepared the story. “He discredited Dad before he died.” “Yes.” Martin continued: “And then I received photographs.” “What photographs?” “My grandchildren leaving school.” My stomach turned. “Nolan threatened your family?” “Never directly.” “He didn’t need to.” No. Nolan never said ugly things directly. He made you understand them. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be. I should have been braver.” “Send me the ledger.” “I will.” “Tonight.” “Claire.” “Yes?” “There’s one more entry in it you need to understand.” “What?” “Arthur tracked payments Nolan made after taking money.” “To whom?” “One payment appears every month.” My heart tightened. “Who received it?” “A company called V.R. Consulting.” Vanessa Reed. I stopped breathing. “No.” “The payments started almost four years ago.” Before Vanessa claimed she met Nolan. Before their supposed relationship began. “How much?” “Five thousand dollars a month.” Elaine stared at me. “That’s sixty thousand a year.” “Why would Nolan pay Vanessa before they were together?” Martin said: “That’s what Arthur was trying to find out.” My phone buzzed. A file arrived. Scanned pages. The ledger. I opened them. Dates. Amounts. Shell companies. Transfers. Thomas Vance. Nolan Carter. V.R. Consulting. Then I saw something else. A handwritten note from Dad beside Vanessa’s first payment: N says V.R. handles compliance. No contract exists. The next note: V.R. tied to Carter before meeting Claire? My heart stopped. “Martin.” “Yes?” “Dad knew Vanessa before I did?” “I think so.” I felt the room tilt. Everything Vanessa told me could be a lie. The secret marriage. The frightened phone call. The claim that she didn’t know me. Maybe she wasn’t another victim. Maybe she had always been Nolan’s partner. I immediately called Detective Bell. No answer. Again. Voicemail. Then Elaine’s phone rang. She answered. “Yes?” Her expression changed. “What?” She put the call on speaker. Detective Bell’s voice filled the room. “We found Vanessa.” My heart jumped. “Is she alive?” “Yes.” Relief hit me. Then Bell continued: “And we found Nolan.” “Where?” “A motel outside San Antonio.” “Did you arrest him?” “Yes.” I nearly collapsed. For the first time in two days, I could breathe. Then Bell said: “But Claire, we have a problem.” “What?” “Vanessa says Nolan kidnapped her.” “That matches what she told me.” “She says he forced her into the truck.” “Okay.” “She says she had no idea about the financial fraud.” I looked at the ledger on my phone. “That’s not true.” Silence. “What?” “I have records showing Nolan paid her company five thousand dollars a month almost four years ago.” Detective Bell went quiet. “Send those immediately.” I did. “Anything else?” “Yes.” “What?” “My father suspected Vanessa knew Nolan before Nolan ever met me.” Elaine’s eyes widened as she reread the note. Bell said: “Claire, stay where you are.” “Why?” “Because Vanessa is currently telling detectives a very different story.” “What story?” He hesitated. “She says she knew Nolan before your marriage.” My skin went cold. “How long before?” “Several years.” “Then she lied to me.” “Yes.” “Why?” “That’s what we’re determining.” I looked down at the ledger. V.R. Consulting. Four years of payments. Nearly $240,000. “What else did she say?” Bell paused. “She says the relationship between her and Nolan was never romantic.” I stared at the phone. “What?” “She claims the wedding ceremony was staged.” “For what purpose?” “She hasn’t explained fully.” My heart began pounding again. “Then why pretend to be his wife?” “We’re asking her that.” “What did Nolan say?” “He requested an attorney.” Of course he did. “But we recovered something from his motel room.” “What?” “A laptop.” My breath caught. “Anything useful?” “We’re still processing it.” Then Bell said: “However, officers also found a flash drive in Vanessa’s bag.” I looked at Elaine. “What’s on it?” “We opened one directory.” “And?” “It contains files labeled with names.” “What names?” “People.” “How many?” “Twenty-three.” My stomach tightened. “Am I one of them?” “Yes.” “My father?” “Yes.” “Thomas Vance?” “Yes.” Bell paused. “And so is Vanessa.” That confused me. “If she’s working with Nolan, why does she have a file?” “We don’t know.” “What’s inside mine?” “We haven’t completed analysis.” “Tell me what you saw.” Another pause. “Photographs.” “Of what?” “You.” My skin prickled. “How old?” “Some appear recent.” “And the others?” “Several seem to be from before you met Nolan.” I stopped breathing. “What?” “One image is dated eight years ago.” I had met Nolan seven years ago. “Are you sure?” “Yes.” That didn’t make sense. Unless Nolan had known who I was before I knew who he was. My father owned nearly five million dollars in assets. Nolan had targeted his businesses. Then somehow Nolan met me. Courted me. Married me. Took control of Dad’s estate. Maybe none of it had been accidental. “Detective.” “Yes?” “How did Nolan and I really meet?” “I don’t know.” “I met him at a friend’s birthday party.” “Who introduced you?” I tried to remember. There had been dozens of people. Music. Drinks. Nolan standing near the kitchen. He had approached me. He said: “You’re Claire Hayes, right?” I had assumed someone told him my name. Maybe someone had. “Claire?” Elaine was watching me. “He already knew my last name.” Bell said nothing. I whispered: “The first sentence Nolan ever said to me was my full name.” My chest tightened. He hadn’t chosen me because he fell in love. He may have chosen me because of my father. My phone buzzed. Another message from Martin. I opened it. One scanned page from Dad’s ledger. At the bottom was a photograph stapled to the paper. A security-camera image outside one of Dad’s warehouses. Date: Eight years ago. Two people stood beside a car. Thomas Vance. And Nolan. Dad had written beneath it: Vance says he doesn’t know this man. Clearly lying. Elaine whispered: “Nolan knew your father before he met you.” My entire body went numb. Then Detective Bell said: “Claire, there’s something else from the flash drive.” “What?” “Your file has a project name.” I swallowed. “What project name?” Paper rustled. Then he read it. “HAYES ACCESS.” I stared at Elaine. Not Claire. Not marriage. Not relationship. Access. I had been access. Access to Dad. Access to the companies. Access to the trust. Access to millions. My marriage had been a five-year burglary with wedding photographs. I lowered myself into the chair. “What happens now?” “We question Vanessa again.” “And Nolan?” “His attorney is on the way.” “Can he get out?” “Not tonight.” “What charges?” “Those decisions are being coordinated with prosecutors.” I closed my eyes. For the first time, I imagined Nolan inside a locked room with no spreadsheet, no bank account, no polite explanation capable of opening the door. It should have felt satisfying. It didn’t. Because Dad was still dead. And one question remained. If Nolan targeted me years before we met… who told him I was the key? The answer came at 11:38 that night. Detective Bell called. His voice sounded exhausted. “We finished an initial review of Vanessa’s flash drive.” “And?” “She’s cooperating now.” “Why the change?” “Because we showed her the ledger.” I gripped the phone. “What is she saying?” “She admits she knew Nolan before your marriage.” “How?” “She worked with Thomas Vance.” My stomach dropped. “At Dad’s company?” “Indirectly.” “What did she do?” “Financial compliance consulting.” So Dad’s note had been right. “But why did she lie?” “She says Nolan threatened her.” “Do you believe her?” “We’re verifying.” “What did she help Nolan do?” Bell hesitated. “She helped create shell companies used to receive money from your father’s businesses.” I felt sick. “So she stole from Dad too.” “Yes.” “How much?” “She claims she personally received approximately forty thousand dollars.” “The ledger shows much more.” “She says Nolan controlled most of the V.R. Consulting account.” Convenient. “What does this have to do with me?” “Vanessa says after your father began asking questions, Nolan needed another way to reach the trust assets.” My hand tightened. “Me.” “Yes.” “So he targeted me.” “Yes.” “How?” This time Bell was quiet for so long I knew the answer would hurt. “There was someone inside your social circle.” My stomach twisted. “Who?” “Someone helped arrange the birthday party where you met Nolan.” I closed my eyes. “Who?” “We found messages.” “Between whom?” “Nolan and Vanessa.” “About the party?” “Yes.” “Who was helping them?” Bell inhaled. “Claire, do you have a friend named Marisol Vega?” My heart stopped. Marisol. My closest friend. My college roommate. The woman whose apartment I had almost gone to after leaving Nolan. The woman who had thrown the birthday party where I met him. “No.” My voice barely worked. “No, that doesn’t make sense.” Bell said nothing. “Marisol introduced us?” “It appears she did more than that.” My pulse roared in my ears. “What?” “We found a message sent by Nolan two weeks before the party.” “To Marisol?” “Yes.” “What did it say?” Bell read it: Make sure Claire comes. She’s the only reason I’m going. I stared into the darkness. Then Bell continued. “There’s a reply from Marisol.” I could hardly speak. “What did she say?” He paused. “Don’t worry. She trusts me completely.”…………..

TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 5…

CLICK HERE CONTINUE TO READ PART 5 – My husband demanded strict 50/50 marriage. Then his $1.94 Venmo request changed everything between us.