Chapter 7: The Woman Behind the Lies
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
*You don’t know what Patricia has been hiding.*
My first reaction was anger.
Not fear.
Anger.
Because after everything Daniel had done, after every lie, every excuse, every attempt to make me believe I was the problem, I couldn’t understand why his mother’s secrets suddenly mattered.
My father noticed my expression.
“What happened?””
I handed him the phone.
He read the message carefully.
Then he looked at me.
“Do you know this number?””
I shook my head.
“No.””
“Did Daniel send this?””
“I don’t know.””
My father placed the phone on the table.
“Don’t reply yet.””
I nodded.
But inside, my mind was racing.
Patricia had always acted like she was untouchable.
She walked into my house whenever she wanted.
She criticized everything I did.
She treated my money like it belonged to her.
And Daniel always protected her.
There had to be a reason.
The next morning, I met with a lawyer my father recommended.
Her name was Rachel Morgan.
She was calm, professional, and direct.
After reviewing the documents, she looked at me.
“Emily, I need you to understand something.””
I sat straighter.
“What?””
“This situation is bigger than a family argument.””
My stomach tightened.
“What do you mean?””
Rachel turned one of the statements toward me.
“Your husband has been moving money for months.””
I looked at the numbers again.
“But why?””
“That’s what we need to find out.””
My father leaned forward.
“Could this affect Emily legally?””
Rachel nodded slightly.
“It could, depending on what he was doing and whether your accounts were used without permission.””
The words made my hands cold.
I thought about all the times Daniel asked me to sign documents.
All the times he told me, “It’s just paperwork.””
I had trusted him.
Because he was my husband.
After the meeting, I returned to my father’s house.
That afternoon, the unknown number sent another message.
This time, there was a photo.
I opened it.
And froze.
It was Patricia.
Standing outside a bank.
Beside a man I didn’t recognize.
The date was three months earlier.
The same month Daniel started pressuring me about my bank card.
My father looked over my shoulder.
“Who is that man?””
“I don’t know.””
A minute later, another message arrived.
*“Ask Daniel who Marcus Hale is.””*
I felt a chill.
That name meant nothing to me.
But clearly, it meant something to them.
I finally replied.
*Who are you?*
The response came almost instantly.
*Someone who knows what your husband and his mother have been doing.*
I stared at the screen.
*Why help me?*
The typing bubble appeared.
Then disappeared.
Then appeared again.
Finally:
*Because I should have warned you sooner.*
Before I could ask anything else, my phone rang.
It was Daniel.
I almost didn’t answer.
But I did.
“Why are you calling me?””
There was silence.
Then his voice.
Different.
Less confident.
“Emily, we need to talk.””
“I think we’ve talked enough.””
“No.””
He breathed out.
“You don’t understand what’s happening.””
I almost laughed.
“You’re right. I don’t understand why my husband hit me.””
“Emily—”
“No.””
My voice became stronger.
“You don’t get to explain yourself anymore.””
Daniel was quiet.
Then he said:
“Your father is filling your head with things.””
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The blame.
Always someone else.
“My father didn’t make you pick up that belt.””
Silence.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Daniel whispered:
“You’re going to regret turning against me.””
The call ended.
I stared at the phone.
My father noticed.
“What did he say?””
I looked at him.
“He threatened me.””
My father’s expression hardened.
Then my phone buzzed again.
Another message.
From the unknown number.
This time, only four words.
*“Check Patricia’s old house.””*
I looked up.
“Dad.””
He saw my face.
May you like
“What?””
“I think we need to find out what they’re hiding.””
