Chapter 3 - THE PHONE IN HIS POCKET
“Empty your pockets.”
Mitchell stared at me.
“What?”
“My backup phone.”
“I don’t have your phone.”
“Empty your pockets.”
Theresa came into the hallway.
“This is ridiculous.”
I held up one hand.
“Stay out of it.”
Her eyes narrowed.
I had never spoken to her that way.
That was probably why she actually stopped.
Mitchell gave me the smile he used whenever he wanted to make me feel unreasonable in front of other people.
“Danielle, you lose things constantly.”
“Then prove me wrong.”
He shook his head.
“See? This. This is what I’ve been dealing with.”
The sentence was polished.
Too polished.
I noticed Theresa looking at him, waiting.
Not reacting.
Waiting.
I reached for his pocket.
He caught my wrist.
I winced.
The movement pulled the cut on my cheek.
He released me instantly.
“Don’t.”
“Then show me.”
He took out his wallet.
Keys.
A folded receipt.
His own phone.
Nothing else.
Then something vibrated.
Not in his hand.
Lower.
His left back pocket.
His face changed.
I stepped around him and pulled the small phone free before he could turn.
My old iPhone.
The one I had searched for in kitchen drawers, gym bags, and under the car seats three weeks earlier.
“You said I must’ve donated this.”
“I found it.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
I pressed the side button.
The screen lit.
Six-digit passcode.
My old passcode opened it.
Mitchell swore softly.
I looked at the notifications.
Bank verification.
Two-factor authentication requests.
A Gmail login alert.
Then a text preview from a number I didn’t recognize.
M: She found the folder.
The message had arrived thirty seconds earlier.
I looked up.
“Who’s M?”
Mitchell’s lips parted.
Theresa answered instead.
“Give him the phone.”
I looked at her.
“Why?”
She took one step toward me.
“Because you’re standing in the hallway half-dressed, bleeding, going through your husband’s private communications like a lunatic.”
I held the phone higher.
“My phone.”
“You’re married. Stop acting like every object belongs to you alone.”
That was almost funny.
I opened Messages.
The contact wasn’t named.
Just a number.
Recent texts had been deleted.
But the newest message remained.
M: She found the folder. Don’t let her contact the lender before noon.
I showed Mitchell.
“Who is this?”
He looked away.
“Work.”
I laughed again.
“You must have the strangest job in America.”
Theresa reached for the phone.
I stepped back.
“Don’t touch me.”
She stopped.
I went downstairs, still holding the blue folder, the phone, and a dish towel against my cheek.
The kitchen looked perfectly normal.
White cabinets.
Quartz countertops.
The stupid ceramic bowl Theresa insisted lemons had to sit in because “a nice house needs to look maintained.”
That normality made the morning worse.
I sat at the island and called the lender.
Mitchell followed.
“Danielle, don’t.”
I put the call on speaker.
After five minutes of transfers, I reached a loan processor named Eric.
I gave him the application number from the folder.
He confirmed my name, address, and date of birth.
Then his voice changed.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Grant. Are you saying you did not authorize this application?”
“No.”
Silence.
Keyboard sounds.
“Did you participate in a video verification yesterday?”
I looked at Mitchell.
“What video verification?”
He closed his eyes.
Eric said, “The file shows identity confirmation completed yesterday at 3:42 p.m.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“I’m not able to discuss our internal process while fraud is being reviewed, but I can place an immediate hold.”
“Please do.”
“I’m doing that now.”
Theresa leaned both palms on the island.
“Mitchell.”
He didn’t look at her.
Eric continued.
“There is also a closing appointment scheduled for eleven thirty today.”
I stared at the clock on the microwave.
8:06 a.m.
“Where?”
“I can’t advise you to attend a disputed closing. I’m placing the file under fraud review.”
“Who scheduled it?”
Another pause.
“The settlement coordinator.”
“Name?”
He hesitated.
Then gave it.
“Lauren Voss.”
Mitchell looked toward the floor.
The perfume.
The lipstick.
Voss Settlement Services.
I wrote the name down.
“Has she communicated with my husband?”
Eric said, “I can’t provide private communications from another borrower.”
Fair.
I thanked him.
Before hanging up, he added, “Mrs. Grant, there’s something unusual in your file.”
Mitchell looked up.
“What?”
Eric said, “The person who completed your identity video presented a North Carolina driver’s license in your name.”
I felt cold all over.
“My license is in my wallet.”
I reached into the purse hanging from the chair.
Pulled it out.
Held it up.
Eric continued carefully.
“Then someone has a second identification document bearing your information.”
Across the island, Theresa sat down.
Not shocked.
May you like
Defeated.
And that was when I realized she already knew.
