Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Dr. Walden says he thinks Roland is keeping me around to help me. He thinks Roland knows exactly how I am and that he’s accepted it, and that a part of him still wants to work out our marriage. I don’t believe that though, and I think it’s too late to try and work things out now.
I could walk away.
Start from scratch and even change my identity—everything there is to know about me.
I don’t know where I’d go, or how I’d get money, but I could do it.
I just need to figure out where to start.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
It’s been a while since I’ve written here. But I have to document my discovery because this is seriously fucked up.
I got a call today. It was from our accountant, Jeff. Roland wasn’t answering the phone and Jeff wanted to speak to me right away, despite me not being on Roland’s accounts anymore. We were good friends—in fact, Roland met Jeff through me. He informed me that some of Roland’s numbers aren’t adding up and that he found several wire transfers going to a bank called Mountain Capital Banking in Denver. He was curious if I’d created the account without Roland’s knowledge and if he should have kept it off record.
I don’t bank there and neither does Roland, so I called the bank to ask about the account and was told the money was going into the account of a charity called Designer Hearts and that my name was listed as the account holder. And not my nuptial Melanie Graham. Melanie Raine.
“That must be a mistake,” I said to the bank’s customer service rep. “I don’t give to a charity by that name. I’ve never even heard of them.”
“Well, Mrs. Graham, it says right here on the account that you authorized the wire transfers from your husband’s account to this one when you opened it. You also opened up a secondary account for an Yvette Dennis on August eleventh and gave her access to the account for her use as well.”
“What?” I shrieked. “I don’t even know an Yvette Dennis! This has to be someone pretending to be me and using my information!” I put my phone on speaker as the woman started talking again.
“Okay. Mrs. Raine, if you believe that is the case, we will have to look into this, but I’ll have to forward your call to our fraud department. Do you mind being put on a brief hold?”
“No. It’s fine. I’ll wait,” I muttered because this was ridiculous. While I waited, I went to the browser on my phone, thinking this had to be some kind of scam. I searched for the name Yvette Dennis and several hits popped up. There was a website called renovateforya.com and an Instagram page with the same title.
I clicked on a Facebook link with the name and it took me to a profile of a woman who had red faux locs in her profile picture. Her eyelashes were full and fake too, and she was posing with a hammer in her hand and a dusty worker’s belt around her waist, standing in the kitchen of a home that appeared to be in the middle of a big renovation.
I scrolled through her profile. She was married to a man named Rodney Dennis. There were images of her and her husband as I scrolled, but then I came across one where she was with someone familiar and a gasp shot out of me.
I cupped my mouth, staring at the photo of her and Dylan. They were seated on an expensive leather couch, both wearing burgundy shirts with the words We Renovate For Ya.
Dylan?
My mind was reeling. But then I remembered something—a detail he’d spilled once before. When we ate brunch together, Dylan told me he had a sister named Yvette. But how the hell could she have had access to my account? I didn’t open this account—I never would have done it. In August, I despised Dylan, and had despised him for months before that.
And it hit me. Like a swift punch to the gut, it hit me and I realized in that moment that Dylan had been in our house so many times, around our personal files, in and out of Roland’s office, and passing my shed. He had access to every fucking thing we owned and we trusted him—well, Roland did.
I hung up the phone and called Jeff back.
“Do you think Roland would authorize this?” Jeff asked as soon as he answered. “He never mentioned any type of payments to a designing charity that you supported. I’m going through my notes now and don’t see it listed.”
“No,” I murmured. “I don’t think he would have.”
“Should I call him to clarify?”
“No—don’t worry about it, Jeff. I’ll ask him when he’s home and let you know what to do after I talk to him.”