Chapter 2 - The Ghost from Chapel Hill2
The name on the incorporation document felt like a physical blow to my stomach, far sharper than the stinging palm Willamina had planted across my cheek eleven days ago.
Evelyn Vance.
I stared at the two words printed in neat, corporate typeface beneath the signature block. The paper trembled slightly in my fingers. I forced my breathing to steady, anchoring my gaze to the dark walnut grain of Barnaby’s conference table until the vertigo receded.
“Evelyn Vance,” I said aloud, testing the syllables on my tongue as if tasting poison. “Grantham’s college girlfriend. The one he claimed he hadn’t spoken to since the spring before our wedding.”
“Not just an ex-girlfriend,” Barnaby corrected quietly, pulling a manila folder from his briefcase and opening it to reveal a printed color photograph. “According to the public records and registry data we pulled yesterday morning, Evelyn Vance is a licensed real estate broker operating out of the coastal Wilmington area. She specializes in luxury historical restorations and coastal acquisitions. And as of four years ago—precisely when these wire transfers began—she became the primary managing partner of Thorn & Associates Heritage Preservation LLC.”
I looked down at the photograph. It had been pulled from an online business profile or a local real estate magazine. Evelyn sat on the porch of a restored Victorian home overlooking the Cape Fear River, wearing a cream-colored linen blazer, her ash-blonde hair falling in loose, effortless waves around her shoulders. She looked successful, composed, and entirely untouched by the chaos of ordinary domestic life.
She looked nothing like the frantic, overworked mother I had been, running a booming design firm by day and packing school lunches by night while my husband supposedly suffered alongside me through his family's financial distress.
“Four years ago,” I murmured, my mind racing backward through the calendar of our marriage. “That was when Grantham started taking those mysterious weekend trips to the coast. He told me he was consulting on a historic preservation project for a private client in Wilmington. He said the travel expenses were covered by the client, but he occasionally needed extra cash for hotel incidentals.”
“And you trusted him,” Barnaby stated, not as a question, but as a simple, objective fact of law.
“I trusted him because he was my husband,” I replied bitterly. “Because when you build a life with someone for eleven years, you stop auditing every weekend they spend away from home. You assume that when they kiss you goodbye at the front door, they aren't driving four hours east to set up a shadow corporation with their old college flame, funded by the money you earned while designing boutique hotels across the East Coast.”
Barnaby adjusted his glasses, tapping his fountain pen against the legal pad. “In the state of North Carolina, marital property acquired during the marriage is subject to equitable distribution. However, when one spouse intentionally misuses marital funds, conceals assets, or dissipates estate value for the benefit of a third party—especially a romantic partner—the court can award a distributive award or unequal division in favor of the injured party. In plain English, Cassandra: your husband didn’t just cheat on you emotionally and financially. He built an entire second life using your sweat, and we are going to dismantle every brick of it.”
A cold, clear focus settled over me. The pain of the anniversary dinner, the memory of Willamina’s mocking laughter, the sound of my children’s frightened silence in the back seat—all of it crystallized into a singular, unyielding resolve.
“I don’t just want a divorce, Barnaby,” I said, looking straight into the attorney’s experienced, weathered eyes. “I want to know how deep this rabbit hole goes. I want every single bank statement, every property deed, and every communication between Grantham, his mother, his sister, and Evelyn Vance for the past four years.”
“Consider it done,” Barnaby said, closing the folder with a sharp snap. “I’ll subpoena the Wilmington bank records by morning. But before you go home to your parents’ house, there is one more thing you need to know about that house you built in North Hills.”
May you like
I froze, my hand hovering over the strap of my leather handbag. “What about my house?”
“Your house,” Barnaby said softly, “isn’t in your name alone anymore. Or at least, Grantham tried very hard to make sure it wouldn't be by the time you noticed.”
