Chapter 7 - Northstar
Rachel remembered Northstar Residential Partners because the name had cost her father seventy-five thousand dollars.
Mason had called it a real estate opportunity.
A group of private investors supposedly purchased distressed houses, renovated them, and resold them.
Rachel’s father invested.
The company vanished six months later.
“He never proved Mason owned it,” Rachel said.
“Who did?” Margaret asked.
“A man named Gregory Vale. At least on paper.”
Detective Cavanaugh heard the name over speakerphone.
“Spell that.”
Rachel did.
There was a pause.
“I’ll look.”
Margaret ended the meeting shortly afterward, but before leaving she gave Sophie a set of instructions that sounded almost painfully ordinary.
Freeze credit.
Change passwords.
Separate joint accounts where legally possible.
Preserve all messages.
Do not confront Mason alone.
Do not delete anything.
Do not sign anything.
For the next three hours, Sophie discovered how deeply marriage had blended her life with someone she no longer trusted.
Mason knew the Wi-Fi password.
Her phone PIN.
The passcode to the garage.
The security questions on one bank account.
The name of her first dog.
Her favorite elementary-school teacher.
The hospital where Ava had been born.
He knew the answers because husbands were supposed to know those things.
By five o’clock, Sophie looked physically ill.
“Every normal thing feels dirty now.”
I understood.
Trust does not look dangerous when you are giving it.
It looks like convenience.
When Sophie checked their joint checking account, she stopped moving.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Forty-eight thousand dollars is gone.”
The transfer had occurred three days earlier.
Destination: an account ending in 1904.
Recipient: M. Reed.
Sophie called the bank.
The representative confirmed Mason had authority on the joint account.
The transfer itself was legal unless fraud could be established.
“Legal,” Sophie repeated after hanging up.
The word tasted poisonous.
“That was the emergency fund.”
“How much did you contribute?”
“Almost all of it.”
She opened another statement.
Mason’s paychecks had been going into a separate account for four months.
Her income had been paying household expenses.
“He told me his payroll department was having problems.”
Rachel closed her eyes.
“He did that to me.”
Sophie snapped toward her.
“I know.”
Rachel recoiled.
Sophie immediately regretted it.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
“Yes, I do.”
Rachel studied her.
“I hated the woman who warned me.”
“What?”
“My college roommate told me Mason made her uncomfortable. I told her she was jealous.”
Sophie sat down.
“Did you ever talk again?”
“Not after the divorce.”
They looked at each other across seven years.
Two women who had defended the same man against people trying to protect them.
Later that evening, Detective Cavanaugh called.
Gregory Vale existed.
Or had.
He died nine years earlier.
His identity had also been used in several business filings after his death.
Northstar Residential Partners had been registered in two states, dissolved, reopened under slightly different names, and connected to multiple civil complaints.
Nothing had led to Mason.
Yet.
“How does Erica fit?” Sophie asked.
“We’re checking.”
After the call, I went upstairs to check Ava.
She was awake in her bassinet, staring at nothing with the solemn concentration only newborns possess.
I lifted her.
She curled instinctively toward my chest.
“You caused quite a revolution,” I whispered.
Sophie stood in the doorway.
“She didn’t cause anything.”
“No.”
“Mason did.”
Her voice had changed.
There was less shock in it.
More anger.
She walked over and touched Ava’s head.
“I keep thinking about the pot.”
I waited.
“What if you hadn’t walked in?”
My stomach turned.
“I did.”
“What if—”
“I did.”
She nodded.
We stood there quietly.
Then she said, “Why were they doing it?”
That question had been hiding beneath everything.
Money explained photographs.
Forged documents.
Storage lockers.
It did not explain holding Ava above steaming soup.
“I don’t know.”
“I need to.”
“So do I.”
At nine thirty, Cavanaugh called again.
This time his voice was different.
“The warrant was approved.”
Sophie gripped the phone.
“And?”
“We opened 317.”
“What’s inside?”
“Documents. Electronics. Photographs.”
“Of me?”
“Yes.”
My heart dropped.
“How many?”
“A lot.”
Sophie’s face hardened.
“What else?”
A pause.
“There is a folder with your name.”
“What’s in it?”
“We’re still processing.”
“Tell me.”
Cavanaugh hesitated.
“One document appears to be a petition draft.”
“For what?”
He answered.
“For temporary guardianship over you.”
Sophie sat down slowly.
“And the proposed petitioner?”
May you like
Another pause.
“Your husband.”
