PART 14 – The More I Remembered About Those Kitchen Table Signatures, the More I Realized How Easily Trust Had Become a Habit

Patrice arranged another meeting with me early the following week.

I brought the notes I had made and the records I could safely gather.

She spread them across her desk.

There were no dramatic discoveries waiting inside those folders.

No single page explained everything.

There were dates, account references, routine paperwork, and gaps I couldn't fill.

The gaps bothered me most.

I wanted a document that would tell me exactly what Dale had done.

Instead, I had to face the possibility that understanding the situation would take time.

Patrice seemed to recognize my disappointment.

"We need to identify what can be verified," she said. "We can't treat a suspicion as a fact just because it fits what you're afraid of."

I nodded.

She asked me to describe how Dale had handled paperwork at home.

I told her that he usually sorted everything before bringing it to me.

He would explain the purpose in a sentence or two.

Then he would point to a line and hand me a pen.

Sometimes he sat beside me.

Sometimes he stood behind my chair.

If I asked whether I needed to read the entire document, he said he had already checked it.

I had accepted that.

I thought a marriage was supposed to work that way.

Patrice asked whether I could identify any specific document I had signed without understanding its contents.

I could remember occasions when I had signed papers without reading every page.

I could not honestly say what every paper had been.

She wrote that down.

"That's important," she said. "But we still need the documents themselves."

I felt ashamed again.

She noticed.

"Carol, I need you to stop treating every unanswered question as proof that you've done something wrong."

I looked at the desk.

"I should have paid more attention."

"Perhaps. But that doesn't establish what Dale did or what he intended."

I breathed out slowly.

She was right.

I had been trying to solve the entire situation by punishing myself for trusting him.

That wasn't going to tell me where the money had gone.

It wasn't going to tell me whether my signature had been used improperly.

It wasn't going to protect me from anything that might happen next.

Patrice asked whether I had kept copies of the financial statements Dale had occasionally shown me.

I remembered seeing figures on his laptop.

I remembered him explaining that a customer had delayed payment.

I remembered him saying that equipment repairs had cost more than expected.

I had not kept copies.

I had never thought I would need them.

Patrice made another note.

Then she asked me about the money Ashley had mentioned.

I repeated what she had told me about the separate account and the approximate amount.

Patrice reminded me that Ashley's statement was information to investigate, not proof of an account balance.

I understood.

Still, the number remained in my mind.

Four hundred thousand dollars.

I had spent months cleaning a dentist's office on Saturdays to help cover household expenses.

If that money existed as Ashley described it, I needed to understand how it related to our finances.

I told Patrice I wanted to know whether the company had hidden assets or debts.

She said that would require appropriate financial records and a proper review.

She did not promise a quick answer.

I appreciated that.

When I left her office, I drove to the salon rather than going straight home.

I sat in my usual chair and looked at the mirror.

My notary certificate was still hanging beside it.

I thought about the documents Dale had brought that Friday.

He had expected me to treat them as ordinary business papers.

He had expected me to accept his explanation.

He had expected me to perform my job without asking why the signatures were there or who had made them.

I wondered how many other people had been asked to do something similar.

I had no evidence that anyone else was involved.

I didn't write that thought in the appointment book.

I was learning the difference between a question and a fact.

That evening, Dale asked whether I had spoken to Patrice again.

I told him I had.

He set his fork down.

"What exactly are you telling her?"

"The truth as I know it."

He stared at me.

"You're making this much bigger than it needs to be."

I looked at the food on my plate.

"Then help me understand it."

He pushed his chair back.

"I have enough problems without being treated like a criminal in my own home."

I watched him stand.

"I haven't called you a criminal."

He left the kitchen.

I sat there for a while.

The house was quiet except for the refrigerator.

I no longer wanted to win an argument with Dale.

I wanted records.

I wanted clear answers.

And I wanted to stop accepting his anger as a reason to abandon my questions.

Click here to continue reading: PART 15: Ashley’s Stories Had Once Made Me Feel Invisible, but Now I Needed to Know Which Parts of Her Life Dale Had Built on Lies