Chapter 3 - The Signature on Page Twelve
The sterile smell of the hospital room suddenly felt suffocating. I pulled my knees up slightly under the heavy white sheets, staring at Officer Miller as if he were speaking a foreign language.
“That’s impossible,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I remember wedding dress fittings that week. I remember arguing with the florist about the centerpieces. I never signed a prenuptial agreement. Eric told me prenups were insulting—he said they meant you didn't trust each other.”
Dad’s expression turned dark and dangerous. He stepped away from the bed, his fists clenched at his sides. “He lied to her. He must have slipped it into the stack of paperwork when we were closing on the house or filling out marriage license affidavits. Eric’s father is a corporate attorney; they know how to bury legal waivers in piles of standard forms.”
“We’ll need to subpoena the notary public who witnessed the signature,” Officer Miller said, jotting a quick note on his pad. “If the signature was forged, or if it was obtained by fraudulent misrepresentation during a bulk document signing, it won't hold up in family court. But I wanted you to know what he’s doing, Ms. Harrison. He isn't trying to reconcile. He’s building a legal wall.”
Megan let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Of course he is. He left my sister on the side of the road because he thought she was an inconvenience, and now that he realizes she might take half of his hidden empire, he’s going to war.”
Officer Miller stayed for a few more minutes, advising us on how to handle the property retrieval through legal channels, before quietly taking his leave.
As soon as the door clicked shut, my phone—which Megan had retrieved from Eric’s car the night before and charged—lit up on the bedside table.
Buzz. Buzz.
It was a text message from an unknown number.
If you think the safe is bad, check the safety deposit box at First National downtown. Ask for the file under ‘Project North.’ You deserve to know who you married.
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass.
“Who is that?” Megan asked, leaning over to look at the screen.
“I don't know,” I murmured.
“Could be a trap,” Dad warned, crossing his arms. “Eric could be trying to bait you into violating some legal boundary so his lawyers can paint you as erratic.”
“It’s not Eric,” I said, a strange, cold intuition settling into my bones. Eric didn't want me looking anywhere; he wanted me quiet, intimidated, and manageable. This message wanted me to dig deeper. “Eric wants me to stay away from his money. Whoever sent this wants me to find out what else he’s hiding.”
“Well, you’re not going anywhere today,” Dad said firmly. “You’re staying right here under doctor’s orders. Megan and I will look into it.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. A sudden wave of fierce, protective anger surged through me, pushing past the fear and the exhaustion. For eight months, I had walked on eggshells, worried that my stress would hurt the baby, worried that my voice would set him off. Look where caution had gotten me: stranded on a highway, gaslit about my own medical emergency, and robbed of my financial security before my child was even born. “I’m not sitting in this bed waiting for other people to excavate my life.”
By evening, the hospital discharged me with strict instructions for bed rest at my parents' house. Megan drove us home, while Dad stayed behind to coordinate with a family law attorney recommended by an old engineering colleague.
Our childhood home smelled of old books, lemon polish, and chamomile tea—safe, unchanging, and entirely distant from the polished, minimalist prison Eric and I had built together. My old bedroom still had the faded floral wallpaper I had chosen when I was sixteen.
After my mother settled me into the bed with extra pillows and a glass of water, she kissed my forehead and quietly closed the door.
I waited five minutes until the house grew still. Then, slipping my phone and a light cardigan over my shoulders, I tiptoed down the hallway toward the back stairs. I needed fresh air, but more than that, I needed to know what Project North was.
As I opened the back door to slip out to my car, a figure stepped out from the shadow of the porch light. It wasn't my father.
It was a woman in her late thirties, wearing a practical trench coat, holding a paper coffee cup. She looked tired, with sharp dark eyes that studied me instantly.
“Claire Harrison?” she asked.
I froze, my hand on the doorknob. “Who are you?”
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“My name is Sarah,” she said, stepping into the porch light. “I was Eric’s chief financial officer for two years before I resigned last month. And I’m the one who sent you that text message.”
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