Chapter 4: The Request in Her Name
Mara didn’t put her phone away after we left the courthouse. The emergency parenting request sat on its screen between us like another person walking to her car.
“He’s trying to make the question about me,” I said.
“He’s trying to make several questions about you,” Mara replied. “We’re going to Nora’s office. We’ll deal with what the records actually show.”
The baby shifted beneath my ribs as I eased into the passenger seat. I pressed my palm against my belly until the movement settled, then watched the courthouse shrink behind us. I had wanted the day to end with the truth. Instead, Julian had found a new way to make me afraid of speaking it.
Nora Bell’s office smelled of burnt coffee and paper warmed by a copier. She was standing beside her desk when we entered, a manila folder gripped in both hands. Her eyes moved over my face, then paused at my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know this is a lot to bring you into.”
“Show me what came in.”
Nora opened the folder. On top lay a printed request bearing my name, my old address, and an email address I had never used.
For a moment, the letters seemed to swim. I knew my own name. I had written it on birthday cards, school forms, thank-you notes. Seeing it placed at the top of a request I hadn’t made felt like watching someone wear my coat and walk away.
“What were they asking for?” Mara asked.
Nora turned the page toward us. “Complete statements for the investment account your father established, plus the account’s authorization forms and current contact information.”
“Everything someone would need to understand how it was held,” Mara said.
Nora nodded. “And potentially to present information about it to someone else.”
My throat tightened. “Did you send any of it?”
“No.” Nora met my eyes. “The email address didn’t match what I had on file, and the forwarding instructions were different from your usual contact details. I called you using the number we already had. I didn’t send anything.”
Relief came so suddenly that I had to grip the edge of the desk. Nora had stopped the request before my father’s account became a bundle of pages in someone else’s hands.
Then the other feeling arrived, colder and slower. Whoever had sent it knew what to ask for.
“Why didn’t you tell me it was this extensive when you first called?” I asked.
“I wanted to verify what I could before alarming you.” Nora’s fingers pressed together over the folder. “I should have explained the scope right away. I’m sorry.”
I looked down at the request again. I could hear the courthouse doors closing behind us, Julian’s voice following me outside: You wanted a fight.
“I’m glad you called,” I said. “I’m not glad you had to.”
Mara leaned closer to the page without touching it. “The unfamiliar email is one issue. What’s the forwarding address?”
Nora slid a second sheet from the folder. The address led to a temporary mailbox, not a home or a bank. Mara read it twice, her expression tightening.
“Where have you seen this before?” she asked.
“In a file connected to Riverline Development,” Nora said. “Not on Audrey’s account. On company correspondence. I recognized it when I checked the request against the information we had.”
My hand closed around the strap of my purse. Riverline. The name Leo had repeated in his small, careful voice; the name Julian had attached to the money my father left me.
“Could Julian have used it?” I asked.
Nora didn’t pretend to know. “I can’t tell you who controlled the mailbox. I can tell you it was used in Riverline-related correspondence, and it appeared on this request.”
Mara’s gaze moved from the page to me. “That connects the request to the company. It doesn’t tell us who sent it or what they did next.”
The distinction mattered. I could feel my mind reaching for the easiest version—Julian had done it, Julian had planned everything, the end. But the papers could show only what they showed. The rest still had to be found.
Mara took out her phone. “Nora, can you tell me the lender that made the inquiry?”
Nora named it and gave her the contact information she had recorded. Mara asked me before dialing.
“Do you want me to speak with them?”
“Yes.”
She put the call on speaker. A man answered after two transfers, identified himself as a representative handling business financing, and asked what information we needed. Mara told him she represented me and that I was present. When he requested confirmation that he could discuss a pending application referencing my account, I gave my name and said yes.
The representative paused while he checked something. I heard keys tapping, then a faint office murmur through the phone.
“Ms. Collins,” he said, “I can confirm that Riverline Development has a pending application with us.”
My fingers dug into the purse strap.
“What does it have to do with my account?” I asked.
“The application lists your investment account as potential collateral.”
For a beat, the room seemed to lose its edges. Nora’s untouched papers lay between us. My name sat at the top of the request, tidy and familiar, while somewhere beyond the call a company I had never agreed to support was asking a lender to count my inheritance as security.
“Did I authorize that?” I said.
“I can’t verify authorization based on this call,” the representative answered. “I can confirm how the application is described in our file.”
Mara leaned toward the phone. “And it’s still pending?”
“Yes.”
May you like
No one spoke. The baby pressed hard beneath my ribs, and I covered the spot with my hand.
My records had never left Nora’s office. But Riverline had placed my account inside a loan application anyway.
