Chapter 5 - The Ledger of Lies
The alley behind Miller’s Transmission was narrow, choked with rusted car fenders, stacks of bald tires, and the sharp, oily reek of burning transmission fluid.
Number 4B was an exterior wooden staircase bolted to the side of a cinderblock building, leading up to a door with peeling green paint. The heat radiating off the metal roof made the air shimmer.
I carried Leo and Clara up the rickety stairs, while Nora climbed slowly behind me, one hand pressed firmly against the splintered wooden railing.
Inside, the apartment was no larger than my master closet back on Sycamore Lane.
A single box fan sat on the floor, whirring weakly as it pushed the hot, stagnant air across a worn linoleum floor. In the corner sat a mattress on the floor covered with clean, faded sheets. A makeshift crib, constructed out of a sturdy plastic laundry basket lined with thick quilts, sat against the interior wall. On the counter of the tiny kitchenette, there were six cans of cheap off-brand formula, three plastic baby bottles, and a ledger notebook open next to a stack of utility shut-off notices.
I stood in the center of the room, holding the twin carriers, my heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.
Nora took the carriers from my hands without a word. She set them gently on the floor near the fan, unbuckled the straps, and checked both infants. They had fallen back asleep, exhausted by the day’s heat.
She turned to face me, crossing her arms over her chest. The defensive wall was back up.
"Now you've seen it," she said. "The great squalor of Nora Vance. Are you happy now? Does it satisfy your guilt to see how far I fell?"
"Why didn't you cash the checks?" I asked, my voice raw.
She froze. "What?"
"The alimony checks," I said, stepping closer. "My attorney, Marcus Cole, set up a trust account as part of the settlement. Fifty thousand dollars. Plus five thousand a month. Every single check came back uncashed. The bank told Marcus the account was never activated. I thought you were just being spiteful."
"Spiteful?"
Nora let out a bitter, disbelieving laugh. She walked over to the tiny counter, picked up the open ledger notebook, and shoved it into my chest.
"Read it, Dean. Read every line."
I looked down at the pages. They weren't expenses.
They were copies of correspondence.
> *July 14: Received letter from Ashworth Legal Group. Stating that any attempt by Nora Vance to claim marital assets, child support, or contest the divorce decree will result in an immediate criminal referral for grand larceny regarding the missing $7,500 from the Vance corporate accounts.*
>
> *July 28: Notice from Fayette County Sheriff. Eviction finalized. Restraining order requested by Camille Ashworth on behalf of Dean Vance.*
>
> *August 12: Private investigator Ray Caldwell visited my mother's nursing home in Richmond. Threatened to have her Medicare coverage audited if I attempted to contact Dean directly.*
I dropped the notebook onto the counter, my hands shaking so violently I couldn't hold the pages.
"I never filed a restraining order," I whispered, the horror rising in my throat like bile. "Nora, swear to God, I never signed a single paper about a restraining order. Marcus never told me about this."
"Marcus didn't handle it," Nora said, her voice dropping to a cold, dead register. "Julian Ashworth’s firm handled the filings. They brought the papers to my door with two off-duty deputies. They told me that if I ever tried to approach you, if I ever told you about the pregnancy, they would ensure the state took the children the second they were born because of my 'documented instability and financial insolvency.'"
She walked over to the small window looking out over the gravel alley.
"I had nothing, Dean. No family left except my mother, who was dying of dementia in that home. No money to hire a lawyer. And a fiancé who had already decided I was a cheat. Who was going to believe me? A twenty-four-year-old girl with no money, or the most powerful family in the county?"
"I would have believed you," I said, though the words tasted like ash the second they left my mouth.
Nora turned to look at me, her brown eyes cutting straight through my soul.
"No, you wouldn't," she said flatly. "You didn't believe me when I told you I loved you. You didn't believe me when I swore on my father's grave that I had never touched another man. You believed the high-gloss pictures in a leather folder because Camille Ashworth handed them to you with a smile."
She walked over to the door and pulled it open. The hot, oil-tinged air blew into the small apartment.
"Leave the envelope, Dean. Leave whatever cash you have in your wallet for the formula. But get out of this apartment. We survived fourteen months without you. We will survive the rest."
"Nora, I'm not leaving you here."
"You don't have a choice," she said.
"I do have a choice," I said, stepping toward her. "For fourteen months, I let Julian Ashworth make my choices. I let Camille pick my clothes, my friends, my investments, and my wife. That ends today."
I pulled out my phone and dialed Marcus Cole.
Marcus had been my friend since our days playing football at Henry Clay High School. He was also one of the toughest, dirtiest street-fighters with a law degree in central Kentucky.
The line picked up on the second ring.
"Dean?" Marcus’s voice sounded frantic. "Where the hell are you? Julian Ashworth just filed an emergency motion in Fayette Circuit Court to appoint a receiver over Vance Construction! He’s claiming corporate malfeasance and breach of fiduciary duty! Where are you?"
"Marcus," I said, keeping my eyes fixed on Nora. "I need you to do three things."
"Dean, did you hear what I just said? The Ashworths are trying to steal your entire company—"
"Let them try," I interrupted. "First: I need you to pull the archived courthouse records for every filing under Vance v. Vance from last July. Check the signature stamps. Julian Ashworth’s firm filed unauthorized motions in my name, including a fraudulent restraining order."
Marcus went dead quiet. "What are you talking about?"
"Second," I continued, "I need a private security team at 114 North Broadway within thirty minutes. Armed. Discreet."
"Who's at North Broadway?"
"My wife," I said. "And my children."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. I could hear papers rustling and Marcus’s heavy breathing.
"Your children?" Marcus whispered. "Dean... what did you do?"
May you like
"I woke up," I said. "Now move."
***
