Chapter 2 - The Invoice With the Wrong Number
Owen answered my call himself.
“Bennett Structural.”
“It’s Natalie Reed.”
“Maple Street Victorian?”
“That’s me.”
“How’s the east porch holding up?”
“Better than my engagement.”
There was a brief silence.
Then he said, “That sounds like a conversation requiring coffee.”
We met at a café near his office the following morning.
Owen was forty, with quiet eyes and a habit of moving his cup away from the edge of the table before speaking.
I had liked that about him during the restoration. He noticed things without making a performance of it.
I put a copy of the invoice between us.
“Did your company issue this?”
He examined it.
His expression changed before he finished reading.
“No.”
“Are you certain?”
“The invoice number belongs to a school inspection. This address isn’t in our system, and that bank account isn’t ours.”
I felt a strange mixture of relief and nausea.
The discrepancy was real.
So was everything it might mean.
“Would you be willing to confirm that in writing?”
“Yes. But tell me what I’m looking at.”
I explained only what he needed to know.
I had loaned Adrian money based partly on records that included this invoice. I was reviewing the transaction with counsel.
Owen didn’t ask why I had trusted my fiancé.
He didn’t look pleased to be right about another contractor.
He simply photographed the page and emailed his office manager.
By noon, Rachel had written confirmation that Bennett Structural Services had neither performed the listed work nor received the payment.
We checked a second invoice.
That supplier had closed its business two years earlier.
The third company existed, but the address on the document belonged to a mailbox rental service.
Rachel put the papers in separate folders.
“Suspicious documents aren’t the same thing as a complete case,” she reminded me.
“I know.”
“We’ll request records through the loan agreement.”
Adrian had agreed to provide supporting expenditure records upon reasonable written request.
He had probably assumed I would never make one.
That afternoon, Rachel sent the request on my behalf.
Adrian called thirteen minutes later.
“Why is your lawyer asking about payroll?”
“Because I’m organizing the loan records.”
“Before our wedding?”
“It seemed like a good time to be clear about finances.”
“You could have asked me.”
“I did. When you borrowed the money.”
He exhaled sharply.
“Is somebody putting ideas in your head?”
I looked around my quiet office.
“No. I’m finally listening to my own.”
He arrived home with flowers.
Not supermarket flowers.
Two dozen white roses, arranged in a vase expensive enough to make me wonder which account had paid for it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “The business has me stressed.”
I waited.
“You know how much I appreciate you.”
“Then send the records.”
His smile stiffened.
“Of course.”
That evening, Denise came for dinner carrying a bridal magazine and a folder.
“I found a wonderful financial adviser,” she announced. “He helps newlyweds simplify property ownership.”
“What a specific specialty,” I said.
She opened the folder.
Inside was a glossy brochure showing smiling couples outside large houses.
Adrian concentrated on pouring wine.
Denise tapped a photograph.
“Your father would want you looking forward.”
There were things I could endure while gathering facts.
That sentence wasn’t one of them.
“My father wanted me to be secure.”
“Exactly.”
“And security means understanding everything I sign.”
A small silence settled over the table.
Then Denise smiled.
“Of course, sweetheart.”
After dinner, I photographed the brochure and sent it to Rachel.
The adviser’s name was Martin Vale.
Rachel replied the following morning.
Do not contact him. I recognize the name from another matter. We need to examine this carefully.
Meanwhile, Owen called.
“I verified something else about that invoice.”
“What?”
“The inspection report number underneath it is genuine. It belongs to your house.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“My restoration inspection?”
“Yes. Someone copied the reference from the report I gave you three years ago.”
The report had been stored in my downstairs study.
Beside my father’s will.
Beside the folder Adrian had offered to organize last winter.
I thanked Owen and ended the call.
For a long time, I sat without moving.
It was one thing to discover that my fiancé had lied about needing money.
It was another to realize he had stood inside the home my father left me, opened the records of its restoration, and used them to construct a lie convincing enough to make me finance his future.
That evening, Adrian kissed my cheek and asked whether I had decided on our first dance.
I looked into his familiar face.
“I’m reconsidering a few choices,” I said.
May you like
He smiled.
He still thought I meant the music.
