Four Minute Phone Call Exposed My Husband and My Best Friend
“Where is the notary, Margret?” Richard asked, his fingers beginning to tap against the wood. “We have a hard deadline with the bank’s wire department by noon.”
Margret did not answer him. She walked to the heavy mahogany door, closed it, and turned the brass deadbolt until it clicked into place.
“This is not the trust agreement you are going to sign today,” Margret said, placing a thick, navy blue folder in the center of the table.
Richard leaned back, his eyebrows pulling together as he looked from the folder to Margret. “What is this? We agreed on the terms of the transfer last week.”
“The terms changed when we completed our audit of the joint accounts,” Margret said.
A man rose from the shadowed corner of the room, stepping forward into the light of the desk lamp. James Rivera, the private investigator I had hired three weeks ago, wore a plain grey suit that looked as tired as his gravelly voice.
“Who is this?” Richard asked, his voice rising a full octave as he stood up from his chair.
“Sit down, Richard,” I said, speaking in a measured, quiet voice.
