Chapter 5 - The Woman at My Door
Serena returned the next morning.
This time, she rang the bell.
I opened the door but didn't invite her in.
"I'll talk here."
She looked exhausted.
No cream coat.
No perfect blowout.
Her hair was tied back, and for the first time since I'd known her, she looked less like the woman controlling every room and more like someone who had slept badly.
"Wesley told you not to trust me."
"He told me not to sign anything."
Her expression flickered.
"Good."
That surprised me.
"Why?"
"Because he finally understands."
"Understands what?"
She looked toward the driveway.
"Can I come inside?"
"No."
"Eleanor."
"No."
She accepted it.
"Fine. Hale Meridian is in serious trouble."
"I know."
"No. You know it's struggling. You don't know why."
"Then tell me."
She took a breath.
"Wesley expanded too quickly."
That sounded like him.
"He hired people. Rented offices. Took contracts that required upfront spending. He thought the revenue would catch up."
"And it didn't."
"No."
"Where does £240,000 come into this?"
Her eyes sharpened.
"He told you?"
"You did."
She looked away.
"That was money moved through the business over time."
"Mine?"
"Some."
"How much?"
"I don't know."
"That's difficult to believe."
"I'm not the accountant."
"But you knew."
"Eventually."
Eventually.
Another dangerous word.
"Why was my house mentioned?"
Serena hesitated.
"Because Wesley believed you would help."
"Believed?"
"He wanted to refinance the business debt."
"Against my house?"
"As additional security."
My stomach turned.
"And you supported this?"
"No."
I stared at her.
"No?"
"For once, Eleanor, no."
It was the first crack in the story I'd constructed about Serena.
She reached into her handbag.
I stiffened.
She removed an envelope.
"I found these."
She held it out.
I didn't take it.
"What are they?"
"Draft documents. Emails. Notes."
"Give them to Rachel."
"Who?"
"My solicitor."
Serena blinked.
Then almost smiled.
"You got a solicitor."
"Yes."
"Good."
Again, not the response I'd expected.
I studied her.
"Why didn't you want me at dinner?"
Her expression changed.
There it was.
The real question.
She could blame Wesley now.
She could rewrite history.
She didn't.
"Because I was angry at you."
"Why?"
"Because every time Wesley failed, you rescued him."
The answer struck harder than an insult.
She continued.
"You think I loved living on your money?"
"You certainly spent it."
"Yes."
No denial.
"I got used to it. I benefited from it. I'm not pretending otherwise."
Her eyes filled, but she didn't cry.
"But Wesley stopped being afraid of consequences years ago."
I said nothing.
"He'd make a bad decision. You'd cover it. He'd overspend. You'd fix it. Business went badly. You'd transfer money. And every time I told him we needed to cut back, he'd say, 'Mum will help.'"
My throat tightened.
"You could've refused."
"I should have."
"So could he."
"Yes."
"So could I."
That stopped us both.
Three people.
Three kinds of failure.
Serena looked toward the street.
"Dinner was supposed to be with my parents because I was going to tell Wesley I wanted us to sell the townhouse."
"What?"
"I wanted to downsize. Pay the debts. Pull our daughter from private school if necessary. Start living on what we actually earn."
"And you didn't want me there."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because I knew he'd turn to you."
The truth was ugly.
But unlike her usual polished remarks, it was honest.
"I thought if you were there, he'd make one face and you'd rescue him again."
I leaned against the doorway.
"Then why send that message?"
"I didn't."
I looked at her.
"What?"
"Wesley sent it."
"He said you didn't want me there."
"I didn't want you there."
The distinction mattered.
"But I didn't tell him to write that."
I remembered the wording.
My wife doesn't want you there.
Wesley had placed the cruelty at Serena's feet.
Just as he had apparently placed responsibility everywhere except himself.
"Why did you come last night?"
"Because Wesley told me you'd discovered the business arrangement."
"With my house."
"Yes."
"And you tried my old key."
Serena looked embarrassed.
"I did."
"Why?"
"I panicked."
"That's not an excuse."
"No."
I appreciated the answer.
She held out the envelope again.
"Give this to your solicitor."
This time, I took it.
Before she left, I asked one more question.
"Serena."
She turned.
"Why did Wesley come here with you and Lydia yesterday?"
Her expression became unreadable.
"Because he thought if I looked like the villain, you'd forgive him."
She walked away.
I closed the door.
Rachel arrived forty minutes later.
We opened the envelope together.
Emails.
Drafts.
Spreadsheets.
One handwritten note.
Then Rachel found something that made her stop.
"What?"
She slid the paper toward me.
It was an email printed months earlier.
From Wesley to a financial adviser.
One sentence had been highlighted.
My mother will sign. She always does.
I stared at those six words.
For years, I had feared Serena saw me as a bank account.
But the person who had written those words was my son.
Rachel turned another page.
Then another.
Her expression tightened.
"Eleanor."
"What?"
"I think you need to see this."
It was a repayment schedule.
And beside one entry was an account name I recognized immediately.
Not Wesley's.
Not Serena's.
Arthur's.
My dead husband's name had been used in paperwork created four years after his death.
May you like
And suddenly, this was no longer only about money.
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