The next morning, Patrice called before I opened the salon.
“Carol, bring every piece of paper you have.”
I put the appointment book in my purse.
I added the folder Dale had left behind, the bank statements, and the old envelopes I had kept because I never knew what to throw away.
At the office, Patrice cleared a space on her desk.
She put the papers into separate piles.
“Things you know,” she said. “Things someone told you. And things we still need to prove.”
I watched her make the labels.
For twenty-six years, Dale had handled the paperwork.
I had handled the groceries, the laundry, the bills he asked me to pay, and the little emergencies that came with running a household.
I thought that was how marriage worked.
Now I was learning that not knowing could cost me more than I had ever imagined.
Patrice opened the folder from Friday.
She read each page slowly.
I watched her finger move down the lines.
“Do you recognize this account number?”
“No.”
“Have you seen this lender’s name before?”
“Maybe on a letter. I can't be sure.”
She wrote that down.
There was no accusation in her voice.
That made it easier to answer honestly.
One document listed business equipment loans.
Another referred to unpaid taxes.
A third had a place for my signature.
My name was typed beneath the line.
The signature beside it looked like mine from across the room.
Up close, the capital C was wrong.
I knew the shape of my own handwriting.
I had signed birthday cards, salon receipts, school forms, and Christmas checks for decades.
I knew how my hand moved when I wrote my name.
“That isn't my signature,” I said.
Patrice looked at me.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
She circled the signature without touching the original page with her pen.
“Then we preserve this exactly as it is.”
I felt cold despite the warm office.
There it was.
Not Ashley's story.
Not something Dale had told his girlfriend.
A document carrying my name, with a signature I said I had not written.
Patrice did not call it fraud.
She said we needed the original records, the lender's files, and someone qualified to examine the handwriting if necessary.
I appreciated that she did not promise me an easy answer.
“What happens if there are more?” I asked.
“Then we find them before you sign anything else.”
I looked down at the appointment book.
The pages were crowded with dates and little notes in my own handwriting.
Ashley had talked while I washed her hair.
She had talked while I applied color.
She had talked while the dryer hummed above her head.
I had written down what she said because I needed to remember it.
But now I understood something else.
Her words could help us know where to look.
They could not tell us what the records would prove.
Patrice asked me to write a list of every bank, lender, and company name I could remember seeing at home.
I made the list in pencil.
Some names came easily.
Others left me staring at the ceiling.
I remembered a brown envelope Dale had carried into the garage.
I remembered him saying the truck payment had been delayed.
I remembered an argument about a tax notice.
I could not remember the date.
Patrice wrote question marks beside those entries.
“It's all right not to know,” she said.
“I feel stupid.”
“You are not stupid because someone else handled the information.”
I swallowed.
I had spent years apologizing for asking questions.
I had learned to accept his explanations before he finished giving them.
Now I was trying to remember what I had never been allowed to understand.
When I left Patrice's office, I went straight to the salon.
My first customer was waiting with a photograph of a haircut she wanted.
I put on my apron.
I combed her hair.
I asked her how short she wanted the back.
My hands knew their work even when my mind wandered.
At lunch, Dale texted.
We need to stop making this uglier than it has to be.
I read it twice.
Then I answered.
Patrice is reviewing the documents. I won't sign anything until I understand it.
His reply came almost immediately.
You know I would never put you in danger.
I set the phone facedown.
That sentence used to comfort me.
Now I wanted to know why he had brought papers to my salon that he expected me to notarize without reading.
I finished my appointments.
I cleaned my station.
Before leaving, I checked the notary certificate beside my mirror.
It had hung there for eleven years.
For most of that time, it had been just another piece of paper on the wall.
Now I understood why Dale had asked Ashley whether I was a notary.
He had not needed a stranger.
He had needed someone convenient.
And he had assumed that being his wife would make me convenient, too.
I locked the salon and carried my purse to the car.
For once, I did not rehearse what I would say if Dale got angry.
I rehearsed what I needed to ask.
Then I drove home.
Click here to continue reading: PART 22: The Questions He Would Not Answer
The Woman Who Kept Coming Back Every Thursday, Never Knowing How Much Her Casual Stories Were Costing Me
Part 21 of 24
