Chapter 10 - THE WOMAN WHO WANTED MY LIFEOlivia called me at 11:17 that night.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“Rebecca?”
Her voice was unusually quiet.
“What do you want, Olivia?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Then tell the truth.”
She inhaled sharply.
“You don't understand what Dad was dealing with.”
“I understand he used my name on loan documents.”
“He was trying to save everything.”
“By risking the house James and I bought?”
“You already have everything!”
I sat motionless.
There it was.
The belief she'd carried for years.
That my life had been easier.
That my sacrifices weren't sacrifices because I had somehow ended up with more.
“Olivia,” I said, “what exactly do you think I have?”
“A career. Money. That ridiculous house. Everybody respects you.”
“And what do you think it cost me?”
She was silent.
“I spent sixteen years serving this country. I missed holidays, birthdays, and family celebrations. I worked through emergencies you never knew existed. And I buried my husband.”
“Rebecca—”
“No. You don't get to turn James's death into proof that I was lucky.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“You think I wanted him to die?”
“I think you wanted what he left behind.”
She began crying.
For a moment, I almost apologized.
That was my old instinct.
Whenever Olivia cried, I made myself smaller.
Whenever Dad became angry, I surrendered.
Whenever Mom looked frightened, I accepted responsibility for keeping everyone comfortable.
But I had finally learned something.
Someone else's tears didn't erase my right to the truth.
“Did you tell the lender I'd approved the loan?” I asked.
She whispered, “Dad said it was temporary.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you certify my signature?”
A long pause.
Then:
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“You knew I hadn't signed it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She began sobbing.
“Because I thought you'd never find out!”
I felt a terrible emptiness.
Not surprise.
Not even anger.
Just the collapse of one final hope.
A part of me had still wanted to believe Olivia had been manipulated into something she hadn't understood.
But she'd known.
She'd known my signature wasn't genuine.
And she'd participated anyway.
“Olivia,” I said, “you need independent legal counsel. You also need to tell the investigators the truth.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You're going to send your own sister to prison?”
“I don't decide whether you're charged.”
“You could make this go away.”
“No.”
“Rebecca, I have children!”
“So do millions of people who don't forge their sisters' signatures.”
She made a wounded sound.
“You're cruel.”
I looked at James's journal on the table.
“No, Olivia. I'm finally being fair to myself.”
Then I ended the call.
Three days later, I received news that changed the direction of the investigation.
The man in the gray jacket had been identified through records connected to the lender's document review.
His name was Curtis Hale.
He had previously worked as an independent document preparer for several real estate ventures, including projects associated with Silver Crest Development.
Hale had agreed to speak with investigators.
According to information shared through the proper channels, he acknowledged visiting my villa with Olivia to scan documents.
He also claimed he had been told the homeowner had authorized the transaction.
That claim did not excuse what had happened.
But it raised an important question.
Who had given him those instructions?
Dad?
Olivia?
Someone else?
Meanwhile, the lender's internal investigation had uncovered inconsistencies in the disbursement records.
Some funds had gone toward existing development debts.
Other payments had been directed to accounts controlled by businesses connected to the project.
And one transfer had been made to Hayes Memorial Consulting.
The business Olivia had organized.
The name she'd chosen from my husband's memory.
I stared at the report Michael showed me.
“How much?”
“Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”
The same amount from the anonymous message.
“What happened to it?”
“The records available so far show transfers to other accounts. We're not yet in a position to establish the final destination of every dollar.”
I ran a hand over my face.
“Did Olivia keep it?”
“Some of the money may have benefited her, but the full trail is still being examined.”
I looked toward the window.
My family had accused me of being selfish because I wanted to keep my own home.
And behind those accusations, they had been moving hundreds of thousands of dollars through a business named after my dead husband.
That evening, David came to see me.
He looked older than he had a week earlier.
“Olivia told me she's been speaking to an attorney.”
“That's wise.”
“She says you're destroying the family.”
I studied him.
“What do you think?”
He looked down.
“I think we've been pretending our family was healthy because nobody wanted to admit how much was wrong.”
That was not the answer I expected.
He continued.
“I'm taking the kids to stay with my sister for a while.”
“Are they okay?”
“They're confused.”
“I imagine they are.”
He nodded.
“Olivia told them Aunt Rebecca was taking away their new house.”
I felt a sharp pain.
“I never promised them a house.”
“I know.”
“David, whatever happens between us, please keep the children out of it.”
“I'm trying.”
He stood to leave.
Then he stopped.
“Rebecca, there's something you should know.”
“What?”
“Olivia wasn't the first person Dad offered your villa to.”
I stared at him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Last year, he tried to convince someone else that he could arrange a property transfer.”
“Who?”
David hesitated.
Then he said a name I hadn't heard in years.
“Your husband's younger brother, Thomas.”
I felt my breath catch.
May you like
Thomas Hayes.
The man who had disappeared from my life after James's funeral.
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