- “Because Faron asked me to sign your name.”
I stood beside my car outside Susan’s office, staring at the pavement.
For a moment, I couldn’t even understand what Denise had just told me.
My husband had spent eleven years using my credit cards.
Six of those years, he’d apparently been lying to another woman about our marriage.
And now that woman was telling me she’d signed my name on documents I had never seen.
“Denise,” I said slowly, “what exactly did you sign?”
She started crying again.
“I didn’t know what it was at first.”
“Tell me.”
“It was about four years ago. Faron brought some papers to the house. He said there was a problem with the financing and that the bank needed your signature.”
I closed my eyes.
“Why would he ask you instead of me?”
“Because he told me you were refusing to sign the final divorce paperwork just to make his life difficult.”
I felt something hard settle in my chest.
Of course he did.
Even in the lies he told another woman, I was apparently the villain.
“He said it was just a formality,” Denise continued. “He showed me an old document with your signature and asked me to copy it.”
My hand went to my mouth.
“And you did?”
“Yes.”
“Denise, that’s forgery.”
“I know that now.”
“No. You knew it wasn’t your name when you signed it.”
She went silent.
I waited.
Finally, she whispered, “You’re right.”
That surprised me.
For eleven years, whenever I confronted Faron about anything, he had an excuse ready.
Earline always had another.
But this woman had just admitted she’d done something wrong.
“I’m not calling because I expect you to forgive me,” Denise said. “I’m calling because I found out what he did, and I don’t want you getting hurt any more than you already have.”
I looked toward Susan’s office.
“Don’t touch those papers.”
“What?”
“Don’t destroy them, don’t change them, and don’t give them back to Faron.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going back inside my lawyer’s office. Tell her everything you just told me.”
Denise agreed.
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting across from Susan again, listening as Denise repeated her confession over speakerphone.
Susan took careful notes.
“Denise, do you still have the original document?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“In a metal filing box in the bedroom closet.”
“And is Faron still authorized to enter the house?”
Denise hesitated.
“He has a key. But we had a terrible argument last month, and he hasn’t been back.”
Susan looked at me.
“Denise, don’t confront him about this. And don’t remove or alter any documents you don’t have a right to take. We need to arrange for these records to be preserved properly.”
“I understand.”
Then Denise said something else.
“There’s a second folder.”
Susan stopped writing.
“What second folder?”
“It’s labeled Angela.”
My skin prickled.
“What?”
“Your name. Just Angela. It’s written across the front in black marker.”
I gripped the arm of my chair.
“What’s inside?”
“I only looked at the first few pages. Credit applications, copies of identification, and some bank statements.”
Susan’s expression became serious. - “Angela, have you ever given Faron permission to open accounts in your name without your knowledge?”
“No.”
“Have you ever signed documents to guarantee a loan for his business after it closed?”
“No.”
She put down her pen.
“Then we have another issue to investigate.”
I looked between the phone and Susan.
“What do I do?”
“First, we’ll get copies of your credit reports and identify any accounts you don’t recognize. If the evidence supports identity theft or forgery, we’ll discuss reporting it to the appropriate authorities.”
I nodded.
But my thoughts were racing.
How many more bills were out there?
How many more years of my life had Faron quietly sold away?
And how much of it was still waiting to find me?
That afternoon, Susan helped me start reviewing my credit information.
I’d never been good with computers.
Faron always told me financial records were too complicated for me.
Funny how he never said that when he handed me a bill.
We found the three credit card accounts I knew.
All closed or updated exactly as I’d requested.
Then we found something else.
A personal loan.
Opened in 2022.
Original amount: $38,000.
I stared at the screen.
“That isn’t mine.”
Susan leaned forward.
“Are you certain?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you recognize the lender?”
“No.”
She pointed to the account details.
“It appears to be associated with your identity. We’ll need to request the underlying application and verify the reporting.”
My throat tightened.
“How much is owed?”
“Approximately twenty-nine thousand dollars.”
I felt sick.
Twenty-nine thousand dollars.
A debt I’d never agreed to.
A loan I’d never received.
And it had apparently existed for years while I was standing over a diner grill, counting tip money to buy groceries.
“There’s another one,” Susan said.
I looked up.
“Another loan?”
“A line of credit. Opened in 2023.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand.”
I sat back.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then I laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Forty-nine thousand dollars,” I whispered.
“That’s the approximate combined amount showing as owed. We don’t yet know whether the accounts are valid, how the proceeds were used, or exactly who applied.”
I pressed my hands together.
“I never signed for any of it.”
Susan looked me straight in the eye.
“Then we’re going to document that carefully.”
I thought about calling Faron.
About screaming at him.
About demanding he explain himself.
But then I remembered what he’d said outside my door.
“You’d better not take those papers to anybody.”
He already knew what was in those folders.
He’d probably known for years.
And if I called him now, he’d have time to invent another story.
So I did something I should’ve done a long time ago.
I stayed quiet.
Not the frightened silence I’d lived with for eleven years.
A different kind.
The kind that lets somebody keep talking until their own lies catch up with them.
Before I left Susan’s office, we discussed freezing my credit and disputing any accounts opened without my authorization.
Susan also arranged to speak with an attorney experienced in financial fraud.
“Angela,” she said as I stood up, “I want you to understand something.”
“What?”
“Even if Faron forged your signature, we’re going to need evidence. We can’t assume every suspicious account is connected to him.”
“I understand.”
“And I don’t want you going to that yellow house alone.”
I nodded.
But she must’ve seen something in my expression.
“Angela.”
I looked at her.
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
I meant it.
At least I did when I walked out of her office.
By four o’clock, I was back at the diner.
Peg was standing behind the register when I came through the door.
She took one look at my face and turned off the coffee grinder.
“Lord have mercy. What happened?”
I told her everything.
The yellow house.
Denise.
The forged signature.
The loans.
Peg listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she took off her apron.
“Sit down.”
“Peg, I’ve got potatoes to peel.”
“The potatoes can wait.”
She poured me a cup of coffee and sat across from me.
Then she said something I hadn’t expected.
“Angela, I need to tell you something.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“Last year, Faron came into the diner asking about your employment records.”
I frowned.
“My what?”
“He wanted a letter confirming your wages.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“He said you two were refinancing the house.”
My stomach dropped.
“We weren’t refinancing anything.”
Peg nodded slowly.
“That’s what I thought.”
“Did you give him the letter?”
“No. I told him if you needed employment verification, you could ask me yourself.”
I covered my mouth.
Peg reached across the table.
“He got angry, Angela. Real angry.”
“Did he say anything else?”
“He said you were too confused about finances to handle paperwork.”
I closed my eyes.
That sounded exactly like Faron.
Make me seem helpless.
Make himself seem responsible.
Then take whatever he wanted.
Peg squeezed my hand.
“I should’ve told you.”
“You didn’t know.”
“I knew he was a lazy fool. I didn’t know he was doing all this.”
I looked at the coffee between us.
Then a memory came back.
Something small.
Something I’d forgotten until that moment.
About two years earlier, Faron had asked me to sign a blank piece of paper.
He said he needed a sample of my signature for a warranty claim on the truck.
I’d refused.
We’d argued for half an hour.
He’d called me suspicious.
Ungrateful.
Difficult.
And then he’d apologized with a gas station bouquet.
At the time, I thought it was another ridiculous fight.
Now I wondered whether it had been something else.
I told Peg.
She shook her head.
“Honey, he wasn’t looking for a wife. He was looking for somebody he could use.”
The words hurt.
But they also made something inside me feel lighter.
Because for years I’d wondered what I was doing wrong.
Why Faron never seemed happy.
Why nothing I gave him was ever enough.
Maybe the answer was simpler than I’d wanted to believe.
Maybe there was never an amount I could give that would satisfy a man who believed he was entitled to everything.
At six thirty, the diner door opened.
Earline walked in.
Freshly curled hair.
Purple cardigan.
That same little handbag she’d carried to the courthouse.
She looked around until she spotted me.
Then she smiled.
“Well, there you are.”
Peg stiffened behind the counter.
I stayed seated.
“Hello, Earline.”
She approached my table.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.”
“Faron says you’re causing some kind of trouble with the banks.”
“I’m reviewing my financial records.”
Her smile flickered.
“Whatever for?”
“Because I found some things I don’t recognize.”
She glanced at Peg.
“Angela, this is family business.”
I nearly laughed.
“That’s funny. You told me on Tuesday that I wasn’t family anymore.”
Her face tightened.
“Don’t be childish.”
I took a sip of coffee.
“What do you want?”
She sat down across from me without asking.
Then she placed an envelope on the table.
“Faron and I have discussed everything. We’d like to settle this quietly.”
I looked at the envelope.
“Settle what?”
“These misunderstandings.”
Peg stepped closer.
“What misunderstandings, Earline?”
Earline didn’t look at her.
She pushed the envelope toward me.
“There’s five thousand dollars in there.”
I stared.
Five thousand dollars.
After eleven years of paying their bills.
After the lies.
The secret house.
The documents carrying my signature.
She was offering me five thousand dollars.
“For what?” I asked.
Earline folded her hands.
“To put this unfortunate situation behind us.”
“What situation?”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, Earline. I don’t believe I do.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“Angela, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a cashier’s check.
Five thousand dollars.
And one sheet of paper.
I unfolded it.
It was an agreement.
The first paragraph said I acknowledged that all financial transactions involving Faron and Earline had been authorized by me.
The second paragraph said I would not pursue any further claims relating to those transactions.
I read it twice.
Then looked up.
“Who wrote this?”
“Someone helping us.”
“Did Faron have a lawyer prepare it?”
Earline shifted.
“That’s not important.”
I put the paper back on the table.
“I’m not signing anything.”
Her smile vanished.
“Angela, this is a very generous offer.”
“I didn’t ask for an offer.”
“Five thousand dollars is more than you deserve.”
Peg made a sharp sound behind me.
But I kept my eyes on Earline.
“If there’s nothing wrong with those accounts, why do you need me to sign this?”
She went still.
For the first time since I’d known her, she didn’t have an answer ready.
Then she leaned closer.
“Because if you keep digging, you’re going to ruin Faron’s life.”
I thought about the $80,000 I’d spent supporting them.
The years I’d gone without new clothes.
The money I’d borrowed from Peg once to repair my car.
All so Faron could keep living like the rules didn’t apply to him.
I leaned forward.
“Earline, he had eleven years to worry about my life.”
She stared at me.
I slid the envelope back across the table.
“Tell him no.”
Her face hardened.
“You’ll regret this.”
I stood up.
“Maybe. But I won’t regret it nearly as much as I regret the last eleven years.”
Earline grabbed the envelope and stormed toward the door.
Then she stopped.
Turned around.
And said something that made the entire diner go quiet.
“You think Denise is helping you?”
My heart stopped.
Earline smiled.
“That woman has been lying to you, too.”
I didn’t move.
“What are you talking about?”
She tightened her grip on her handbag.
“Ask her what happened to the first loan.”
Then she walked out.
I stood frozen beside the table.
Peg came over.
“Angela?”
I barely heard her.
The first loan.
The thirty-eight-thousand-dollar loan.
What did Denise know about it?
And why would Earline mention her unless she was afraid Denise might tell me something?
I grabbed my phone and called Susan.
She answered immediately.
“Angela?”
“Earline just came to the diner. She offered me five thousand dollars to sign a document saying I approved everything.”
Susan’s tone sharpened.
“Did you sign it?”
“No.”
“Good. Did you keep a copy?”
“No. She took it.”
“Tell me everything you remember about it.”
I did.
Then I told her what Earline said about Denise.
Susan was quiet for a moment.
“Angela, don’t confront Denise. Let me speak with her first.”
I agreed.
But before I could hang up, another call appeared on my screen.
Denise.
I told Susan.
“She’s calling right now.”
“Let it go to voicemail.”
I watched the screen.
One ring.
Two.
Three.
Then the call ended.
A moment later, a text arrived.
I opened it.
“Angela, please don’t believe anything Earline tells you. I need to explain what happened with the loan.”
Another message followed.
“Faron wasn’t the one who deposited the money.”
I sat down.
Then the third message came.
And this time, I felt the blood drain from my face.
“Angela, the loan money went into an account with Earline’s name on it. But there’s something worse. She used part of it to pay someone who was supposed to keep you from finding out.”
I stared at those words.
Someone who was supposed to keep me from finding out.
Who?
A bank employee?
A relative?
Somebody I trusted?
Before I could answer, Denise sent one final message.
“I found the payment records. Angela, you need to know who that person was.”
Then she sent me a photograph.
It showed a bank transfer receipt.
There was a name printed beside the recipient information.
I enlarged the photograph.
Read the name.
And felt my whole body turn cold.
Because I recognized it.
It was someone who had been sitting across from me, promising to protect me, while I told them every secret I had.
END OF PART 4 — TO BE CONTINUED… - PART 5 — THE NAME ON THE RECEIPT THAT CHANGED EVERYTHING
- I stared at the photograph Denise had sent until the letters blurred together.
The name on that bank transfer receipt was one I recognized immediately.
Peg Sullivan.
My boss.
My friend.
The woman who had stood beside me when Faron threatened to accuse me of stealing.
The woman who had told me she would protect me.
The woman who had just poured me coffee and held my hand while I cried.
I looked across the diner.
Peg was standing behind the counter, counting change.
Twenty-two years.
I’d worked beside that woman for twenty-two years.
And now I was staring at a receipt suggesting Earline had sent money to her.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Angela?”
Peg looked up.
“You all right, honey?”
I quickly turned my phone facedown.
“Just tired.”
She frowned.
“You look pale.”
“Long day.”
She came around the counter.
“Go on home. I’ll finish closing.”
Normally, I would have argued.
Tonight, I grabbed my purse.
“Thanks, Peg.”
She squeezed my shoulder.
“Whatever happens with Faron, you know I’m on your side.”
I nearly asked her right then.
Nearly held the phone in front of her face and demanded an explanation.
But Susan’s warning was still ringing in my ears.
Don’t confront anybody until we understand what we’re looking at.
So I smiled.
And walked out.
The moment I got into my car, I called Susan.
She answered.
“Angela, what happened?”
“Denise sent me a bank transfer receipt.”
“From whom?”
“An account she says belonged to Earline.”
“To whom?”
My throat tightened.
“Peg.”
There was a long silence.
“Peg Sullivan? Your employer?”
“Yes.”
“Angela, listen carefully. A payment doesn’t prove someone was involved in wrongdoing. Do you understand?”
“I know.”
“Do you have the entire receipt?”
“Just a photograph.”
“Forward it to me.”
I did.
Susan studied it while I sat in the dark parking lot.
Finally, she spoke.
“Angela, this receipt shows a payment of twelve thousand dollars to an account identified with Peg’s name.”
“Twelve thousand?”
“That’s what appears on the image. We need to authenticate it.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“Why would Earline give Peg twelve thousand dollars?”
“That’s what we need to find out.”
Then Susan asked a question.
“Did Peg ever mention receiving money from Faron’s family?”
“No.”
“Did she ever do business with Earline?”
“Not that I know of.”
Susan sighed.
“Don’t accuse her. Don’t discuss the receipt with anyone else tonight. We’ll investigate.”
I ended the call.
Then I sat there looking through the diner’s front window.
Peg was wiping down the counter.
The same way she’d done every night for decades.
I remembered the time my mother died.
Peg closed the diner for two days so I could arrange the funeral.
She paid me anyway.
When I broke my wrist, she covered my shifts.
When Faron’s shop failed, she gave me extra hours without making me beg.
Could that woman really have accepted money to help my husband deceive me?
Or was somebody trying to make me believe she had?
I drove home with more questions than answers.
But I wasn’t prepared for what was waiting on my porch.
A cardboard box.
No address.
No note.
Just a box sitting beneath the porch light.
I stopped halfway up the walkway.
My first instinct was to open it.
Instead, I took a photograph.
Then I called Susan again.
She advised me not to disturb anything suspicious and to contact the police if I felt threatened.
I called the non-emergency number.
An officer came by, checked the package, and helped me document it.
Inside were old photographs.
Pictures of Faron.
Pictures of Earline.
Pictures of the yellow house on Miller Road.
And one photograph that made my stomach turn.
It showed Faron standing beside Denise on the front porch.
He had his arm around her shoulders.
They were smiling.
Behind them hung a banner.
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY — FIVE YEARS TOGETHER!
The photograph was dated the previous summer.
Five years together.
While I was still married to him.
I stared at that picture until the officer gently asked whether I knew the people in it.
“My former husband,” I whispered.
“And the woman he was seeing.”
The officer nodded and recorded the information.
Then I noticed something else at the bottom of the box.
A folded letter.
My name was written across the front.
Angela.
Not Mrs. Mott.
Just Angela.
I opened it carefully.
The handwriting was unfamiliar.
“You think your husband was the only one who lied to you. He wasn’t. Ask Peg why she took the money. And ask her what happened at the diner on October 14, 2022.”
I read it twice.
October 14, 2022.
The date meant nothing to me.
At least, not at first.
Then I remembered.
That was the week the diner had been closed because of an electrical problem.
Peg told everybody the wiring needed repairs.
We were shut down for four days.
I remembered because I’d lost nearly a week’s worth of tips.
Faron had complained about the missing money.
He’d said I should find another job.
I suddenly felt cold.
Why would that date matter?
And who had sent me the box?
The officer advised me to keep the materials available for the investigation and provided an incident number.
After he left, I sat at my kitchen table.
My mother’s recipe box was still on the shelf.
I took it down.
Opened the lid.
And found the card for her potato-and-cheese pierogi.
Her handwriting was faded.
Three cups flour.
One egg.
Warm water.
A pinch of salt.
At the bottom, she’d written something I’d read a thousand times.
“Don’t rush what needs time.”
I ran my thumb over those words.
Then I started crying.
Not because of Faron.
Not even because of Earline.
Because I didn’t know whom to trust anymore.
The next morning, I arrived at Susan’s office before she opened.
She let me inside and made us both coffee.
I gave her copies of the photographs and the letter.
She examined everything carefully.
Then she circled the date.
“October 14, 2022.”
I nodded.
“Peg closed the diner that week.”
“Do you know why?”
“Electrical repairs.”
“Was there a fire?”
“No.”
“An inspection?”
“I don’t remember.”
Susan folded her hands.
“Angela, before we assume anything, I want to know whether this was a real repair or whether something else happened.”
She contacted a local records office to ask what permits and inspection records might be available.
While she worked, I received a call from Denise.
I stepped into the hallway.
“Hello?”
“Angela, did you get the package?”
My heart jumped.
“You sent it?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid you’d refuse it.”
I closed my eyes.
“Denise, you can’t keep doing things like this. You need to tell my lawyer what you have instead of leaving anonymous boxes on my porch.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Where did the photographs come from?”
“Faron kept them in the house.”
“And the letter?”
A pause.
“I wrote it.”
I gripped the phone.
“Then tell me what happened on October fourteenth.”
Denise took a shaky breath.
“That was the day Faron told me he’d finally solved his money problems.”
“What does that mean?”
“He came home with cash. A lot of cash.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t let me count it.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Did he tell you where it came from?”
“He said his mother had helped him arrange something.”
My heart hammered.
“What something?”
“He said he’d found a way to use a business’s income records to qualify for financing.”
I stopped moving.
“A business?”
“Yes.”
“Which business?”
Denise hesitated.
Then she whispered, “The diner.”
I felt dizzy.
Peg’s diner.
The place I’d worked for twenty-two years.
The place Faron had tried to use against me.
Denise continued.
“Faron said it was perfect because the business had steady sales and an employee whose wages could support the application.”
My mouth went dry.
“An employee?”
“He didn’t say her name.”
But I already knew.
Me.
I thought about that mysterious personal loan opened in 2022.
Thirty-eight thousand dollars.
I thought about Peg’s unexplained twelve-thousand-dollar payment.
And I thought about the days the diner had been closed.
“Denise,” I whispered, “did Faron tell you Peg helped him?”
“No. He said somebody at the diner gave him the information he needed.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do you have any proof?”
“There’s a folder with copies of payroll records. I told Susan about it.”
“Payroll records?”
“Yes. Your name is on them.”
I nearly dropped the phone.
That afternoon, Susan arranged a meeting with Denise at her office.
I sat across from the woman who had spent six years believing she was building a future with my husband.
She was younger than I expected.
Maybe forty.
Brown hair pulled into a loose ponytail.
No makeup.
Tired eyes.
She looked as though she hadn’t slept in days.
When she saw me, she stood.
“Angela, I’m sorry.”
I held up my hand.
“Please. Not yet.”
She sat down.
Susan placed a recorder on the desk and asked permission before starting.
Denise agreed.
Then she opened a folder.
Inside were copies of loan documents.
Bank statements.
Employment records.
And something that made me sit straight up.
A copy of my driver’s license.
I stared.
“Where did you get that?”
“Faron had it.”
“That’s impossible. My license is in my purse.”
Denise shook her head.
“It’s a photocopy.”
I looked at the picture.
It was an older license.
The one I’d replaced after it expired.
I remembered leaving it in the kitchen junk drawer.
Faron must have taken it.
Susan examined the documents.
Then she pointed to a page.
“This appears to be an application for a personal loan.”
My name was printed at the top.
My Social Security number was partially visible.
My employer was listed as Sullivan’s Diner.
And the stated annual income was much higher than what I actually earned.
“That’s wrong,” I said.
Susan nodded.
“We’ll obtain the lender’s records and verify how this was submitted.”
Then she turned to Denise.
“Who prepared these documents?”
Denise stared at her hands.
“Faron.”
“And who signed?”
Denise started crying.
“I signed one page. The one with Angela’s name.”
Susan remained calm.
“Did you submit the application?”
“No.”
“Did you receive any of the loan proceeds?”
“No.”
“Did you know the information was false?”
Denise looked at me.
“I knew the signature wasn’t mine to use. But I didn’t know the loan was being taken out in Angela’s name until later.”
I stared at her.
“Later?”
She nodded.
“When the money arrived, Faron told me his mother had handled everything.”
“How much money?”
“Thirty-eight thousand.”
“Where did it go?”
Denise opened another folder.
“Most of it went into Earline’s account. But there were other transfers.”
She handed Susan a printed statement.
There it was.
Twelve thousand dollars.
Paid to Peg Sullivan.
I felt my stomach twist again.
Susan studied the transaction.
“Denise, where did you obtain this statement?”
“Faron kept a copy with the loan papers.”
“Do you know why Peg received the payment?”
Denise shook her head.
“No.”
Then she looked directly at me.
“But I know what Faron said about her.”
My heart started pounding.
“What?”
“He called her the insurance policy.”
I stared.
“What does that mean?”
Denise swallowed.
“He said if anything ever went wrong, Peg would keep Angela from asking questions.”
I felt as though somebody had punched me.
Peg.
The woman I trusted more than almost anybody.
I started to stand.
Susan reached toward me.
“Angela, wait.”
But I shook my head.
“I need some air.”
I walked outside.
The afternoon sun was bright.
Cars moved past on the road.
People went about their ordinary lives.
And I stood on the sidewalk wondering whether my entire world had been built on lies.
A few minutes later, Susan joined me.
“Angela, we have suspicious documents and an allegation. We still don’t know what Peg actually did.”
I nodded.
But my throat was tight.
“She knew me for twenty-two years.”
“I understand.”
“She watched me struggle.”
“I know.”
“She gave me extra shifts because I needed money.”
Susan waited.
Then I whispered, “What if she knew why I needed it?”
Susan didn’t answer.
There was nothing she could say.
That evening, I didn’t go to work.
I called Peg and told her I wasn’t feeling well.
She sounded worried.
“Honey, you need anything?”
I stared at the wall.
“No, Peg.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Get some rest.”
Before she hung up, she said, “Love you, Ange.”
My eyes filled with tears.
“Good night.”
I ended the call.
Then I sat alone until the sun went down.
Around nine, somebody knocked on my door.
Three soft knocks.
I looked through the peephole.
Peg.
She was holding a paper grocery bag.
I opened the door but left the chain in place.
“Peg?”
She smiled sadly.
“I brought you chicken soup.”
My chest hurt.
“That’s kind of you.”
Her smile faded.
“Angela, we need to talk.”
I gripped the door.
“About what?”
She glanced toward the driveway.
Then lowered her voice.
“About Faron. And about something I should’ve told you four years ago.”
I didn’t move.
Peg’s eyes filled with tears.
“Angela, I took money from Earline.”
For a moment, everything stopped.
Then she said, “But not for the reason you think.”
I stared at her.
“Then why?”
Peg looked down at the grocery bag.
“Because somebody was threatening to take away the diner.”
I swallowed.
“What?”
She looked up.
“And because I was trying to keep you from finding out what Faron had done to your mother’s old house.”
I felt the breath leave my body.
My mother’s house?
The little place she’d owned before she died?
The house I thought had been sold to pay her medical bills?
I grabbed the doorframe.
“Peg, what are you talking about?”
Her voice broke.
“Angela, your mother’s house was never sold to pay medical bills. Faron arranged the sale while you were grieving, and I have proof he lied to you about where the money went.”
I stared at her through the narrow opening.
And then Peg whispered something even worse.
“The buyer was connected to Earline. And the person who signed the papers in your name wasn’t you.”
END OF PART 5 — TO BE CONTINUED… -
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PART 6 — THE HOUSE MY HUSBAND STOLE WHILE I WAS BURYING MY MOTHER
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