Chapter 3 - TWO WIVES AND ONE PERFECT LIE
Vanessa stood on the front porch with one hand pressed against her mouth.
The little girl had gone inside with an older woman who appeared from the kitchen.
Brent kept looking between us.
“Everybody needs to calm down.”
I laughed.
It came out sharp and unfamiliar.
“Calm down?”
“Savannah, please.”
“Who is she?”
Vanessa answered before he could.
“I'm Vanessa Whitaker.”
My stomach dropped.
“Whitaker?”
She lifted her left hand.
A diamond ring glittered beneath the morning sunlight.
“We've been married for three years.”
I stared at her.
Then at Brent.
“Three years?”
Brent closed his eyes.
My voice broke.
“Eli is three.”
Vanessa's expression changed.
“Who's Eli?”
I swallowed.
“My son.”
Her eyes widened.
“Brent has a son?”
I nodded.
“His son.”
Vanessa looked at her husband.
Then whispered:
“You told me you didn't have children.”
Brent raised both hands.
“Listen. This is complicated.”
I stepped toward him.
“No. Complicated is figuring out how to pay the electric bill with forty dollars. Complicated is explaining to a toddler why Daddy missed Christmas.”
My voice rose.
“This is a lie.”
Vanessa suddenly turned toward the house.
“Get out.”
Brent stared.
“Vanessa—”
“Get out of my house.”
I almost corrected her.
My house.
But then I remembered Grandpa's words.
He had bought the house for me and Eli.
I needed to know what the paperwork said before making another mistake.
So I turned toward my car.
Brent grabbed my wrist.
“Savannah, wait.”
I looked down at his hand.
“Let go.”
“Don't do anything stupid.”
I met his eyes.
“Like believing you?”
He released me.
I walked away.
But before I reached my car, Vanessa called after me.
“Savannah!”
I turned.
She stood on the porch, crying.
“Did he tell you he was working in Nashville?”
I nodded.
Her face crumpled.
“He told me he was traveling to Memphis for business.”
We stared at each other.
Two women.
Two homes.
Two children.
One man who had built an entire life out of lies.
Then Vanessa whispered something that made me stop breathing.
“He told me this house was an inheritance from his late father.”
That afternoon, I met Grandpa at his attorney's office.
His lawyer, Margaret Ellis, spread several documents across a conference table.
Grandpa looked exhausted.
“Savannah,” he said, “there's something else.”
My stomach tightened.
Margaret adjusted her glasses.
“The house was purchased through a family trust intended for your benefit.”
I leaned forward.
“Then how is Brent living there?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Your husband presented documents suggesting you had authorized him to manage the property.”
“I never signed anything.”
She slid a paper toward me.
At the bottom was my name.
Savannah Whitaker.
The signature looked almost perfect.
Almost.
I stared at it.
Then noticed the date.
It was signed on a Tuesday in September.
I remembered that Tuesday.
Eli had been hospitalized with pneumonia.
I'd spent the entire day beside his bed.
I hadn't gone anywhere.
I looked at Margaret.
“That's not my signature.”
She nodded grimly.
“We suspected as much.”
Grandpa closed his eyes.
I whispered:
“He forged it.”
Margaret continued.
“And that may not be the only document.”
I looked up.
“What do you mean?”
She placed another page in front of me.
It showed a loan secured against the property.
A loan for $280,000.
My heart stopped.
May you like
Brent hadn't just stolen our home.
He had borrowed against it.
