Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
I stood by the stove, stirring a pot of marinara that I had no intention of eating. “You are late.”
“Client dinner ran long,” he said, pulling a thick envelope from his briefcase. He slid three pages of cream-colored paper across the clean countertop.
The letterhead at the top of the first page bore the name of my father’s estate trust.
“We need to get these signatures finalized before the bank holiday,” Richard said, sliding a heavy silver pen toward me.
I did not touch the pen. “Margret said we had until the middle of November.”
“The market is moving fast, Laura,” he said, his voice rising in that persuasive, fast-paced rhythm he used on commercial buyers. “If we do not secure the Bellevue property by Friday, the deposit is forfeited.”
I looked at the line where my signature was required, then at the empty space beside it where his name was already written.
“I want to read through the transfer clauses again,” I said.
Richard stepped closer, his hand coming down gently on my shoulder. “We have been over this three times. It is the same structure we agreed on last summer.”
