Chapter 3 - The Dutiful Wife
When I walked back into Room 412 at St. Mary Care Center, the atmosphere was thick enough to cut with a scalpel.
The cream-sweater-wearing mistress and her son were gone. Only Martha and George sat in the corner chairs, looking like two defendants waiting for a jury verdict. Alistair was propped up on his pillows, his face pale, his bandages stark against his dark hair.
"Jacqueline," Alistair rasped, reaching out a weak, bandaged hand as I stepped to his bedside. "Thank God you came back. I... I was afraid you wouldn't."
I ignored his hand, pretending to fuss with the flowers on his nightstand instead. "How are you feeling, Alistair? Did the doctor review your CT scans?"
"I'm fine, honey, just... confused," he lied smoothly, his voice taking on that soft, manipulative tone he used whenever he wanted to smooth over a mistake. "About last night... I know how things looked. My mother explained what she said to you."
I turned slowly, looking at Martha. "Oh?"
Martha cleared her throat nervously, adjusting her purse on her lap. "Jacqueline, dear... I panicked last night. Paige isn't a distant cousin. She's... she's the daughter of an old friend of mine. She was having financial troubles, and Alistair was helping her out. He's been like a mentor to her. The little boy... well, he just calls any adult man 'Daddy' because his real father abandoned them!"
It was a lie so absurd, so insulting to my intelligence, that it almost made me laugh aloud. But I kept my face perfectly smooth, letting a tear pool in the corner of my eye.
"A mentor?" I asked, my voice trembling with crafted emotion. "Alistair, is that true?"
Alistair squeezed his eyes shut, nodding weakly. "Yes, Jackie. I swear to you on my life. I was just trying to help a struggling mother. I knew how sensitive you were about us not having children, so I didn't tell you because I didn't want to hurt your feelings!"
He was shifting the blame onto me. Onto my alleged sensitivity regarding our lack of children. A decision, ironical enough, that had been his idea five years ago when he claimed he wanted to focus on growing his firm first.
"Oh, Alistair..." I sobbed softly, bringing a tissue to my nose. "I was so terrified last night! I thought... I thought you had a whole second family!"
Martha let out an audible sigh of relief in the corner. George wiped sweat from his brow. They actually believed I was buying it. They thought the powerful, razor-sharp attorney was just another desperate wife willing to accept a terrible lie to keep her comfortable life.
"I know, baby," Alistair soothed, regaining his confidence now that he believed he had me back under control. "I should have been honest with you. I'm so sorry."
"I forgive you," I whispered, reaching down to gently pat his arm. "We just need to focus on your recovery. And... and the business."
Alistair’s eyes flickered with instant greed. "The business?"
"Yes," I said, pulling a leather folder from my tote bag. "You know how worried you were about the First National commercial credit line before the accident? You mentioned those corporate guarantees last week."
Alistair tried to mask his eagerness, but his pulse monitor gave him away, ticking upward. "Right... the bank documents. Did the courier deliver them to the house?"
"They did," I lied seamlessly. "I brought them with me. I know how stressed you were about the deadline, Alistair. I thought... if I sign them now, it will take the pressure off you while you recover."
I pulled out a stack of papers and laid them on his rolling tray table, handing him a pen.
Alistair looked at the documents, his eyes gleaming with triumphant relief. In his mind, his trap had sprung perfectly. Once I signed these guarantees, he would be home free—his $3 million debt shifted to my personal liability, allowing him to pull the trigger on his secret offshore escape plan.
"You're amazing, Jackie," he said softly, signing his name at the bottom of the execution page with a trembling hand, then passing the pen to me. "Just sign right under my name, here."
I took the pen, looked at the signature line marked Secondary Financial Guarantor: Jacqueline Ross-Finch, and smiled.
Then, with absolute deliberation, I uncapped the pen and drew a thick, heavy black line right through the signature box, writing two words in clear, bold block letters above it:
REJECTED - FRAUD
The room went dead silent.
Alistair stared at the page, his breath catching in his throat. "Jackie... what... what are you doing?"
I closed the folder with a crisp, echoing snap, the gentle tears on my face instantly vanishing, replaced by a cold, deadly composure that made Martha gasp in horror.
"I listened to the dashcam recording from your SUV, Alistair," I said, my voice cutting through the quiet room like a steel blade. "The entire fifteen minutes before your crash. I know about Paige. I know about Matty. I know about the Edina townhouse. And I know about the Cayman accounts."
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Alistair’s face went ghastly white, the blood draining from his lips as he stared at me in sheer, unadulterated terror.
"And as of 8:00 AM this morning," I added, leaning down close to his ear, "First National Bank has been served with an emergency fraud notice freezing your commercial credit line."
