Chapter 3: What Hannah Found
Hannah's voice came back before I could say anything else.
—There's a signature on this document, Rachel.
It has your name printed underneath it.
But I've seen your signature.
Brandon showed me a card you sent him once — he kept it in his wallet.
He said it was from when you were just friends.
She stopped.
—This doesn't look like the same handwriting.
I pressed the phone harder against my ear.
—What does the document say, Hannah?
Exactly.
—It's an authorization form.
For a joint savings account.
It lists you as the secondary account holder, but the primary is Brandon.
The address on it is your apartment.
The date is eight months ago.
Eight months ago.
Two months before he ever proposed to me.
—He forged my signature.
I said it quietly, almost to myself.
But Hannah heard it.
—Rachel, I need you to listen to me.
I found something else in the same bag.
An envelope.
It has a bank logo on it.
I haven't opened it yet, but the return address is from a branch in Indianapolis.
—That's your city.
—Yes.
Neither of us spoke for a moment.
—Hannah, how did you meet Brandon?
She was quiet long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
—Through my uncle.
My uncle and Brandon's father have done business together for years.
Brandon came to a family dinner eighteen months ago.
He was — he was very charming.
Very attentive.
Within three months he was calling every day.
I thought—
Her voice broke slightly.
—I thought he had chosen me.
I looked through the windshield at the empty parking lot.
A light in the hotel lobby moved.
A staff member crossing behind the glass.
—Open the envelope, Hannah.
I heard the sound of paper tearing.
Then silence.
Then a sharp breath.
—It's a loan agreement.
Brandon borrowed forty thousand dollars from a private lender in Indianapolis.
Eight months ago.
The collateral listed is—
She stopped.
—Say it.
—A property in Columbus.
The address is your apartment building, Rachel.
He listed it as a jointly owned asset.
My chest went cold.
—I don't own that apartment.
I rent it.
He knows that.
—I know.
I can see that.
The document has errors.
But someone signed it.
Someone who wasn't you, and wasn't him.
I opened my car door and stepped out into the night air.
I needed to breathe.
—Hannah.
Where is Brandon right now?
—He said he was going to the hotel bar.
He left twenty minutes ago.
—Don't tell him you called me.
Don't tell him what you found.
—I won't.
Rachel—
—What?
—I'm seven months pregnant.
I don't have anywhere to go tonight.
But I want you to know that whatever he did to you — I didn't know.
I swear to you I didn't know.
I believed her.
I didn't know why, but I did.
—Keep that envelope.
Keep the document.
Don't let them out of your sight.
I hung up and stood in the parking lot.
The night was warm.
Somewhere inside that hotel, Brandon was sitting at a bar, probably ordering something expensive, probably relaxed, probably certain that everything was still under control.
He had forged my signature.
He had stolen my money.
He had used my name and my address to borrow forty thousand dollars from a private lender.
And he had done all of it while texting me goodnight.
I got back in the car.
I didn't drive home.
I drove to the twenty-four-hour branch of my bank on Fifth Street and sat in the parking lot until it opened at seven.
My phone buzzed at 2 a.m.
It was Brandon.
*Hey.
You awake?
We should talk tomorrow.
I think we can work through this.*
I set the phone face-down on the passenger seat.
At 2:17 a.m., it buzzed again.
*Rachel, don't do anything rash.
There's a lot you don't understand yet.*
I picked it up that time.
May you like
I read it twice.
Then I took a screenshot of both messages and emailed them to myself.
