Chapter 3 - The Lakehouse Receipt
Monday morning brought no calls from Dale, which worried Patrice more than if he had started shouting.
“When a man like Dale goes quiet immediately after getting caught, it means he’s either consulting a very expensive bankruptcy attorney or he’s moving money somewhere else,” Patrice said, leaning across her glass-topped desk as I slid the photocopies of the lakehouse deed across to her.
She adjusted her glasses, scanning the legal description and the notarized signatures from five years ago.
“Diane Vance,” Patrice murmured, tracing the name with her fingernail. “Do we know her?”
“Never heard the name in my life,” I said, sitting rigidly in the leather armchair opposite her desk. “Not from his family, not from his business associates, not anywhere. For five years, he’s been maintaining an entire second household while I was scrubbing floors at a dental clinic on Saturdays so we could afford my health insurance.”
Patrice looked up, her expression a mix of professional sympathy and sharp analytical focus. “Carol, let’s look at the timeline. Five years ago. That’s right when his commercial roofing contracts doubled in value. He didn’t start making real money because of market growth; he started making it right when he bought this second property.”
“You think the roofing business was just a front for something else?”
“Or,” Patrice said slowly, “the roofing business is legitimate, but Diane Vance holds the equity. Let’s dig into who she is.”
By Monday afternoon, Patrice’s private investigator—a retired Macon police detective named Miller—had pulled public records, utility bills, and vehicle registrations on Diane Vance.
When Miller walked into Patrice’s office at three o'clock, he tossed a manila folder onto the desk and let out a dry whistle.
“You’re not going to like this, ladies,” Miller said, leaning against the doorframe. “Diane Vance isn't some random girlfriend on the side. According to corporate filings from five years ago, she is listed as the primary managing partner of Vance Commercial Holdings.”
I stared at him. “What is Vance Commercial Holdings?”
“It’s the parent company that actually owns Dale’s roofing business,” Miller said. “Dale isn’t the owner. He’s just the registered agent and frontman. Diane Vance owns ninety percent of the equity.”
The room seemed to tilt slightly. For twenty-six years, I had believed I was married to a self-employed small-business owner who scraped by on grit and long hours. In reality, Dale was an employee in a corporation owned by another woman—a woman he had been tied to for at least half a decade.
“And that’s not all,” Miller added, pulling a small printout from his pocket. “Check who signed as the witness on Diane’s original incorporation papers back when the company was founded.”
I took the paper. My eyes scanned the bottom line of the corporate registry.
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The signature wasn't Dale’s. It belonged to my own brother, David, who had supposedly lost touch with Dale years ago over a failed business loan.
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