Chapter 4 - THE CONFRONTATION AT THE MANSION
The dining room of our Wayzata mansion was silent except for the rhythmic clinking of sterling silver against bone china.
Martha sat across from me, her posture rigid, pushing a piece of roasted chicken around her plate with her fork. Sitting next to her was her husband, George Finch, whom I had picked up from his country club earlier that afternoon. George was a quiet, weak-willed man who spent his life pretending not to notice his wife's manipulations or his son's sociopathy.
"This chicken is delicious, Jacqueline," George muttered nervously, taking a quick sip of his Pinot Noir.
"Thank you, George," I said, setting down my glass. "It's Alistair's favorite recipe. I used to make it for him every time he came back from his 'business trips' to Chicago."
Martha’s fork froze. She looked up at me, her eyes narrowing. "Jacqueline, you've been acting very strange all evening. Is there something you want to say?"
I leaned back in my chair, folding my hands neatly over my napkin.
"Actually, Martha, yes. I was looking through our safe in the master closet this afternoon, looking for Alistair's insurance policies." I paused, letting the silence stretch until it became suffocating. "I found something else instead."
I reached into my leather folder beside my chair and pulled out three glossy photographs, sliding them across the polished mahogany table.
The first photograph was a crystal-clear shot of Alistair, Paige, and little Matty at a beach resort in Maui last December—the exact same week Alistair told me he was attending a legal risk conference in London.
The second was a copy of the deed to the Edina townhouse, showing Apex Holdings as the owner.
The third was a copy of the forged equity line application bearing my stolen signature.
George gasped, his face draining of color as he looked at the pictures. Martha, however, didn't flinch. Her expression instantly hardened, dropping the polite, dotty mother-in-law facade she had worn for seven years.
"So," Martha sneered, tossing her napkin onto her plate. "You found out. I wondered how long it would take a high-powered attorney like you to notice what was right under her nose."
"Martha!" George hissed, horrified. "Shut up!"
"Why should I shut up, George?" Martha snapped, turning her cold, venomous glare back to me. "She was never right for Alistair anyway! She was always working, always obsessed with her career, never home to cook his meals or give him a child! Paige is a real woman. She gave my son a family. She gave me a grandson!"
I listened to her rant without moving a single muscle in my face. In court, when an opposing party loses their temper, you let them speak. The more they talk, the more evidence they give you.
"And what about the forgery, Martha?" I asked calmly. "Did Paige give him that, too? Or did you help him sign my name to steal $1.2 million from this house?"
Martha snorted derisively. "That money belongs to Alistair! He built his business! You just sit in your cozy office filing divorces. My son deserves to be happy, Jacqueline. And if he had to take what was rightfully his to secure his future with Paige, then good for him."
"Rightfully his?" I let out a soft, amused chuckle. "Martha, five years ago, Alistair’s company was six weeks away from liquidation. I put up my personal savings as collateral to secure his first bank loan. I introduced him to every high-net-worth investor in my professional network. Without me, your son would be bankrupt."
"Well, it doesn't matter now," Martha said, crossing her arms smugly. "You don't have a choice. If you sue him or try to make a scene, Alistair will file for bankruptcy, Finch Synergy will collapse, and the investors will come after you for the guarantees. You’ll be ruined, Jacqueline. Walk away cleanly, sign the divorce papers, and let him have his life. It's over."
I looked at Martha, then at George, who refused to meet my eyes.
"You really think you're clever, don't you?" I asked quietly.
Before Martha could respond, the front doorbell chimed.
"Are we expecting company?" George asked nervously.
"I am," I replied, standing up and smoothing down my silk blouse. "Excuse me for a moment."
I walked to the foyer and unlocked the grand front door.
Standing on the porch, wrapped in a trench coat and shivering slightly in the rain, was Paige Miller. She was holding a leather folder against her chest, looking confused and anxious.
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"Jacqueline?" Paige said, her voice hesitant. "You... you sent me a text from Alistair's phone saying he needed me to bring the offshore transfer agreements here immediately?"
"I did," I said, stepping aside and offering her a polite, terrifyingly calm smile. "Please, come in, Paige. We were just discussing your future."
