Dale was at the kitchen table when I arrived.
His work boots were beside the back door.
A glass of tea sat near his elbow.
He looked up as I came in.
“Where have you been?”
“Working.”
“You were supposed to call me.”
“I was with Patrice.”
His jaw tightened.
“You went back to that lawyer?”
“Yes.”
He pushed the glass away.
“Carol, this is getting ridiculous.”
I put my purse on the counter.
“Then answer my questions.”
He stared at me as though I had spoken another language.
“What questions?”
I took a folded list from my purse.
I had written it in my own hand that morning.
“Did you sign my name on business documents?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
I unfolded the paper.
“Then why is there a document in that folder with a signature I did not write?”
He looked toward the folder.
For a second, his expression changed.
It was small.
But I saw it.
“Which document?”
“The one assigning responsibility for business debt.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I handle a lot of paperwork.”
“That wasn't my question.”
“I may have signed something on your behalf years ago. You knew I handled the business.”
“Did you sign my name?”
He stood.
“Don't twist my words.”
“I am asking you to answer them.”
He walked to the refrigerator and opened it.
He stood there without taking anything out.
I watched his shoulders rise and fall.
“You always trusted me before,” he said.
“I did.”
“And now you don't.”
“Now I have a document with my name on it that I didn't sign.”
He shut the refrigerator.
“You're letting that woman poison your mind.”
“Ashley didn't write my name on that paper.”
He looked at me sharply.
I had said her name without raising my voice.
That seemed to unsettle him more than shouting would have.
“She doesn't know anything about the company.”
“Then the records will show that.”
He laughed once, without humor.
“You think a lawyer can fix everything?”
“No. I think a lawyer can help me understand what I'm being asked to sign.”
He picked up his keys.
“I'm going to the office.”
“Fine.”
He stopped near the door.
“You aren't going to tell people our private business.”
“I haven't.”
“You've already brought Patrice into it.”
“She is my attorney.”
He opened the door.
For years, I would have followed him with an apology.
I would have tried to soften his anger before he drove away.
This time, I stayed by the counter.
The door closed.
I listened to his truck start and pull away.
Then I sat down at the kitchen table.
My hands were trembling.
I placed them flat against the wood until they stopped.
The next day, Patrice arranged for us to request records through the proper channels.
She explained which documents could be requested directly and which would require additional steps.
She told me not to remove anything from Dale's office or access accounts that were not mine.
I followed her instructions.
I did not want to make a mistake because I was frightened.
At home, I gathered the statements already addressed to me.
Some were old.
Some were recent.
I put them in date order.
I found a letter about a loan I did not remember discussing.
I found a tax notice Dale had told me was only a routine reminder.
I found a bank envelope with no statement inside.
I wrote down where each item had been kept.
I did not fill in missing dates from memory.
I did not guess at amounts.
The little list grew.
On Thursday, Ashley arrived at two.
She wore a pale blouse and no ring.
She sat in my chair and stared at herself in the mirror.
“Has he talked to you?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That he wants me to stop asking questions.”
She closed her eyes.
“That sounds like him.”
I put a cape around her shoulders.
“Did you personally see him sign my name?”
“No.”
“Did you see the documents?”
“Not those documents.”
“Then we need to keep that clear.”
She nodded.
“I know what he told me, Miss C. I know what he showed me. But I don't know what was actually filed.”
It was the first time she had said it so plainly.
I mixed her color.
She watched me in the mirror.
“He told me the business was worth more than he let you believe.”
“Did you see financial statements?”
“No. He showed me numbers on his laptop once.”
“Did you see where the numbers came from?”
“No.”
I applied the color to her roots.
She looked down at her hands.
“I wanted to believe him.”
“I understand wanting to believe someone.”
Her eyes filled, but she did not cry.
“He said you never cared about his work.”
I kept the brush moving.
“He told me I didn't need to understand it.”
Ashley looked up.
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No,” I said. “It isn't.”
She stayed quiet for a while.
Then she asked whether Patrice would speak to her.
“If you have information you believe matters, you can call her yourself.”
“Will you tell her I'm not lying?”
“I'll tell her what you said. She will decide what questions to ask.”
Ashley nodded.
She did not ask me to forgive her.
I was grateful for that.
When I finished her hair, she paid and left the usual twenty-dollar tip.
I wrote the appointment date in my book.
Under it, I noted the statements she had made and the questions she could not answer.
I did not write that she was telling the truth.
I did not write that she was lying.
I wrote what happened.
For the first time, that felt like enough.
Click here to continue reading: PART 23: What the Records Said
The Woman Who Kept Coming Back Every Thursday, Never Knowing How Much Her Casual Stories Were Costing Me
Part 22 of 24
