A forensic accountant hired by my attorney had begun reviewing Brooks Design Studio’s accounts.
Marissa had left.
But before she did, she asked to speak to me privately.
We stood in the bare dining room where my twelve-foot walnut table had been.
She looked younger without confidence.
“I need to tell you something.”
“Then tell me.”
“I didn’t meet Eric at a bar.”
I folded my arms.
“Where?”
“Your studio.”
I stared at her.
She swallowed.
“Eight months ago.”
“What were you doing there?”
“I was interviewing for a job.”
“You never applied to my company.”
“Not Brooks Design.”
She looked ashamed.
“Another company was using your conference room.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“What company?”
“Aster Lane Consulting.”
The name landed like ice water.
I stepped closer.
“Say that again.”
“Aster Lane Consulting.”
“But the LLC was registered yesterday.”
She shook her head.
“The Holdings company was.
The consulting company already existed.”
“Who owns it?”
“I thought Eric did.”
“You thought?”
“He introduced me to someone else.”
“Who?”
She looked away.
“Rebecca.”
I stopped breathing.
“Rebecca Sloan?”
“Yes.”
My operations manager.
My friend.
Marissa continued quickly.
“She interviewed me.”
“For what?”
“Client relations.”
“For Aster Lane?”
“Yes.”
“At my studio?”
“Yes.”
I could barely process the words.
“When?”
“Saturday.
Eight months ago.
Eric said Brooks Design had extra office space.”
“We are closed Saturdays.”
“That’s why we were there.”
I leaned against the wall.
Marissa looked miserable.
“I didn’t know you then.”
“Apparently.”
“I knew Eric was married.”
“That is not helping you.”
“I know.”
“Keep going.”
She nodded.
“Rebecca said Aster Lane was going to become a luxury procurement and development consultancy.”
My stomach dropped.
Procurement.
Development.
Two areas directly adjacent to my business.
“What clients?”
“She wouldn’t tell me names.
But she showed me project sheets.”
I already knew.
“My clients.”
“I think so.”
“You saw confidential material.”
“Yes.”
“And you still took the job?”
“I never started.”
“Why?”
“Eric did.”
I stared at her.
“He told me they were waiting for the right time.”
“What right time?”
She closed her eyes.
“After your divorce.”
There it was.
Not an affair around which a business scheme had developed.
A business scheme around which an affair had developed.
I looked at the empty room.
“The divorce was part of the plan.”
Marissa whispered, “I think so.”
My phone buzzed.
Price.
“We found Rebecca.”
My heart lurched.
“Where?”
“At the airport.”
“Leaving?”
“Yes.”
“For where?”
“Zurich.”
That made no sense.
Rebecca hated flying.
She took trains whenever possible.
“What did she have?”
“A laptop.
Cash.
Two passports.”
I closed my eyes.
Price continued.
“And your father’s ledger.”
Rebecca sat in Interview Room Three at the downtown police station.
I watched through one-way glass.
She looked exactly like herself.
Gray blazer.
Dark hair pulled back.
Minimal makeup.
Hands folded neatly.
The same woman who had reminded me to eat lunch during deadlines.
The same woman who had sat beside me at my father’s funeral.
The same woman who had once told me Eric did not appreciate me.
Price stood beside me.
“You don’t have to go in.”
