Chapter 4 - MARISSA'S WARNING
I did not reply to Marissa Cole until I was parked outside my mother’s apartment in Bridgeport.
The drive should have taken thirty-five minutes.
It took almost an hour because the snow intensified and holiday traffic slowed the Merritt Parkway to a crawl.
That was probably good for me.
It forced my body to do something ordinary while my mind tried to dismantle the previous six hours.
My husband had admitted to a six-month affair.
He had moved $445,000 out of our savings account.
Someone had forged my electronic signature on a document connecting Whitfield & Table to Reeves North Atlantic’s billing system.
At least one invoice using my company name had been submitted for $186,000.
And now the woman sleeping with my husband was warning me not to tell his father she had contacted me.
There are points in life when anger becomes almost useless because too many other emotions are demanding the same space.
I sat behind the wheel and read Marissa’s messages again.
Then I typed.
“What is the Seabrook vendor audit?”
Three dots appeared.
They disappeared.
They appeared again.
Finally, she answered.
“Not by text.”
I stared at the words.
“Then call me.”
My phone rang less than five seconds later.
I answered without greeting her.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then a woman inhaled on the other end.
“Simone?”
Her voice was lower than I expected.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry.”
I almost ended the call.
“Do not start there.”
“I didn’t know how else to start.”
“Try facts.”
Silence.
Then she said, “Douglas told me you were separated.”
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly in the quiet car.
“He told me you were living together for appearances because his father was preparing a succession announcement.”
“We shared a bed last night.”
Marissa stopped breathing for a second.
I continued before she could apologize again.
“You did not text me because you suddenly discovered morality.”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Douglas is in trouble.”
“I noticed.”
“No.”
Her voice tightened.
“You noticed the affair.”
“You noticed the money.”
“You saw one invoice.”
“You have not seen the problem.”
I looked through the windshield at my mother’s building.
A plastic wreath hung crookedly on the lobby door.
“What problem?”
“Reeves North Atlantic has been paying vendors that do not exist.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know the total.”
“You seem to know enough to call me.”
“I worked on an outside consulting team that was hired to review operating margins after the Seabrook acquisition.”
“What acquisition?”
“Seabrook Freight Systems.”
I remembered the name.
Reeves North Atlantic had purchased a regional freight company in Rhode Island the previous spring.
Douglas had called it his biggest deal.
Patricia had hosted a dinner at Holloway Hill to celebrate.
I had catered that too.
Marissa continued.
“Our team flagged vendor payments that were growing faster than freight volume.”
“Such as fake catering invoices?”
“Yes.”
The answer came too quickly.
“You already knew about Whitfield & Table.”
“I knew your company name appeared in the ledger.”
“How long?”
“Since September.”
I closed my eyes.
“And you were sleeping with my husband.”
“Yes.”
“While knowing someone was using my business in suspicious billing.”
“Yes.”
Her honesty almost made me angrier.
“Why did you not call me in September?”
“Because I was stupid.”
“That is not enough.”
“Because Douglas told me the invoices were legitimate and your company handled executive hospitality under a consolidated services agreement.”
“The forged agreement.”
“I did not know it was forged.”
“When did you figure it out?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“What happened three weeks ago?”
“I saw your real invoice history.”
My pulse quickened.
“How?”
“Brennan Energy questioned a duplicate charge.”
I remembered Brennan.
Richard had mentioned that dinner in the kitchen that morning.
My company had catered it in October.
The total bill had been $41,780.
“What duplicate?” I asked.
“A second invoice for one hundred sixty-four thousand dollars.”
I said nothing.
“Same event date,” Marissa continued.
“Similar description.”
“Different invoice number.”
“Different bank instructions.”
My mouth went dry.
“Who approved it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You do know.”
“Simone.”
“You called me.”
“I’m trying to keep you from making the same mistake I did.”
“What mistake?”
“Thinking Douglas is the only person involved.”
I sat straighter.
“Who else?”
She did not answer.
“Marissa.”
“I cannot say that yet.”
“Then this call is over.”
“Wait.”
I waited.
She lowered her voice.
“There was a vendor audit scheduled after the duplicate Brennan charge.”
“Scheduled by whom?”
“Internal finance.”
“What happened?”
“It disappeared.”
“Meaning?”
“The audit request was canceled.”
“By Douglas?”
“No.”
That answer got my attention.
“Then by whom?”
“I do not know who physically canceled it.”
“That sounds convenient.”
“The instruction came from the family office.”
Patricia.
The thought arrived before Marissa said another word.
I remembered my mother-in-law’s reaction at the table.
Surprised, but not enough.
“You mean Richard?”
“No.”
“Patricia?”
Marissa went silent.
That silence was an answer.
I leaned back against the seat.
For years, I had thought Patricia’s worst quality was snobbery.
Suddenly snobbery felt almost comforting.
“Why are you telling me this now?”
“Because Douglas transferred money today.”
“The two hundred fifty thousand.”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked me to confirm Harbor Gate received it.”
“So the message was about my money.”
“Yes.”
“Why was he sending it?”
“To cover a call.”
“A phone call?”
“No.”
She hesitated.
“A capital call.”
I knew enough business to understand the phrase.
“An investment fund asked for more money.”
“Yes.”
“What did he invest in?”
“Not a fund.”
“What, then?”
“An acquisition vehicle.”
“For Reeves North Atlantic?”
“No.”
“Then for what?”
“A competing logistics company.”
I stared at the snow collecting beneath the windshield wipers.
“Douglas invested in a competitor?”
“He and two other people created Harbor Gate to buy distressed freight assets through intermediaries.”
“Why?”
“Because if Reeves North Atlantic lost certain routes after the Seabrook integration, Harbor Gate could buy the subcontractors cheap.”
The idea was so ugly I needed her to say it differently.
“You are telling me my husband positioned himself to profit if his father’s company had problems.”
“Yes.”
“Did he cause the problems?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he move Reeves money through fake vendors?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he use my company because he thought no one would question it?”
“I think so.”
I felt sick.
My grandmother’s name was on every Whitfield & Table invoice.
I had chosen it because it meant something clean to me.
Douglas had turned it into camouflage.
“Who owns Harbor Gate?” I asked.
“Douglas owns part of it.”
“Who else?”
“I cannot tell you over the phone.”
“Then meet me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Douglas does not know I contacted you.”
“He will soon.”
“Not if you are smart.”
My anger sharpened.
“Do not tell me how to be smart after sleeping with my husband for six months.”
“You are right.”
Her voice broke slightly, but she recovered.
“You are right about that.”
“Then give me something useful.”
She exhaled.
“Invoice 4418 is not the only Whitfield invoice.”
“How many are there?”
“At least fourteen.”
I gripped the steering wheel.
“Total value?”
“Just over one point eight million dollars.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard her.
“One point eight million?”
“Yes.”
“That money did not come to my company.”
“I know.”
“Where did it go?”
“Three accounts.”
“Harbor Gate?”
“One of them.”
“And the others?”
“I only know the last four digits.”
“Send them.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because someone is monitoring document access.”
I almost asked who.
Then I understood.
“You think Douglas is monitoring you.”
“I think someone is.”
The line went quiet.
Then Marissa whispered, “Listen to me carefully.”
I did.
“Tomorrow, your husband is going to tell you that your company is under investigation.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“He is going to say the fake invoices came from Whitfield & Table.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It does if the goal is to make you responsible.”
I looked at my reflection in the dark windshield.
“Responsible for what?”
“For all of it.”
The call ended.
I called back immediately.
No answer.
I called again.
Straight to voicemail.
Then I saw headlights turn into the parking lot behind me.
A black SUV stopped three spaces away.
For one irrational second, I thought Douglas had followed me.
The driver’s door opened.
My attorney, Elise Morgan, stepped out carrying a laptop bag.
I stared at her.
She walked toward my van and tapped the passenger window.
I unlocked the door.
“How did you know I was here?” I asked.
“Your mother called me.”
“My mother called you?”
“She said you sounded like someone who was about to make a decision before getting legal advice.”
That sounded exactly like my mother.
Elise climbed in and closed the door.
She was forty-eight, sharp-eyed, and almost impossible to impress.
She looked at me for five seconds.
Then she opened her bag.
“Tell me everything.”
I did.
When I finished, she did not speak for nearly a minute.
Then she asked one question.
“Simone, who has administrator access to Whitfield & Table’s vendor portal?”
“Me, Nadia, and Caleb.”
“Caleb who?”
“Caleb Mercer, my finance manager.”
Elise turned her laptop toward me.
“I called in a favor after your voicemail.”
On the screen was a Connecticut business filing.
HARBOR GATE HOLDINGS LLC.
Three managers were listed.
DOUGLAS REEVES.
MARISSA COLE.
And CALEB MERCER.
I stopped breathing.
My husband’s affair partner was in business with my finance manager.
May you like
And suddenly the fake invoices had a door into my company.
