The next morning, I began reviewing our finances.
It was the kind of work I had spent my professional life doing.
Numbers had always comforted me because they didn't change their meaning to protect someone's feelings.
A bank transfer was a bank transfer.
A withdrawal was a withdrawal.
And a missing balance had to be explained.
I opened the shared household account.
At first, everything looked ordinary.
Mortgage payments.
Utilities.
Insurance.
Groceries.
Then I noticed a series of transfers.
Each was relatively small.
Three thousand dollars.
Four thousand five hundred.
Six thousand.
They had been made over several months to an account labeled Whitmore Consulting Operations.
Dereck had told me those transfers were temporary business advances.
I had agreed to some of them.
But not all.
I printed the statements.
Then I checked our savings account.
The balance was nearly forty thousand dollars lower than I expected.
I sat very still.
We had been saving for home repairs.
The roof needed replacing.
The kitchen plumbing was aging.
My father had always warned me that houses demanded attention whether their owners were prepared or not.
Now the money was gone.
I called the bank.
After verifying my identity, I requested records for every transfer.
The representative explained that some transactions had been initiated through online banking using credentials associated with our joint account.
I asked whether the bank could identify the device or location.
She said that information would require further review.
I documented the conversation and contacted Eleanor.
“Don't change or destroy anything,” she advised. “Download the records and preserve them.”
I spent the afternoon assembling a spreadsheet.
By evening, I had identified more than sixty thousand dollars transferred from household funds into accounts connected to Dereck's business.
Some transfers had been discussed.
Others had not.
The distinction mattered.
I refused to pretend every payment was theft simply because I was angry.
But I also refused to accept that marriage gave Dereck unlimited permission to use our savings.
When I showed Eleanor the spreadsheet, she studied it carefully.
“You've done useful work,” she said.
“I want to know where the money went.”
“So do I.”
Through the legal process, Eleanor had requested documents from Northbridge and the relevant business entities.
The responses were incomplete.
Several records were missing.
Others contradicted one another.
A loan schedule listed funds that did not appear in the corresponding bank statement.
An invoice described consulting services for a company that had dissolved two years earlier.
And a payment ledger included a transfer to a business owned by Peter Lawson.
The amount was seventy-five thousand dollars.
“What was that for?” I asked.
“We don't know yet.”
Robert leaned over the table.
“Could be a fee. Could be repayment. Could be something else.”
Eleanor nodded.
“We need evidence, not guesses.”
I appreciated her discipline.
By then, I was capable of imagining a dozen terrible explanations.
Some might have been true.
Others might have been products of sleepless nights.
I wanted the facts.
That evening, I received an email from a woman named Allison Reed.
She introduced herself as Dereck's former administrative assistant.
I almost deleted it.
Then I read the first sentence.
Mrs. Whitmore, I believe your husband has been using your name on business documents without your knowledge.
I called Eleanor before replying.
She advised me to preserve the email and arrange a conversation through her office.
Two days later, Allison arrived carrying a slim folder.
She was thirty-four, with tired eyes and a habit of twisting her wedding ring when nervous.
“I worked for Dereck for five months,” she said.
“Why did you leave?” Eleanor asked.
“Because I found invoices that didn't match actual work.”
She explained that Whitmore Consulting had begun with legitimate clients.
But the contracts were smaller than Dereck expected.
He rented an expensive office and hired staff before the business had enough revenue.
When payments slowed, he borrowed money.
Then he borrowed more.
Peter introduced him to private lenders.
Eventually, the business became a collection of debts held together by promises.
“Did you ever see Claire sign anything?” Eleanor asked.
“No.”
“Did Dereck discuss her property?”
Allison looked at me.
“Yes.”
I felt my stomach tighten.
“What did he say?”
“That the house was his safety net.”
I stared at her.
“He called it that?”
She nodded.
“He said you were being stubborn about refinancing, but eventually you'd understand.”
I looked down at my hands.
For years, I had believed our disagreements about the house were ordinary marital arguments.
Now I understood that Dereck had been discussing my property with strangers as though my consent were an inconvenience.
Allison opened her folder.
“I kept copies of some emails because I was worried I'd be blamed.”
One email was from Peter to Dereck.
It discussed the timing of the court filing.
Another referenced our anniversary trip.
A third contained a sentence that made Eleanor sit forward.
If Claire is overseas when the matter is called, the lack of opposition should help us move forward.
I read it twice.
Then I looked at Allison.
“Did Dereck know about the trip being used this way?”
She hesitated.
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“Because he replied.”
She handed Eleanor the final page.
Dereck's response contained only one sentence.
I'll make sure she's on the plane.
END PART 5
Disclaimer: This fictional story was created with AI assistance for entertainment. Names, characters, dialogue, and events are fictional. Any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental.
