Chapter 8 - The Paper Trap
Two weeks later, the formal response to our divorce filing arrived from Ethan's newly appointed court-appointed attorney.
Ethan couldn't afford a high-priced private lawyer anymore. Cedar Lane Commercial Properties had officially filed a corporate fraud complaint against him with the county prosecutor, demanding seventy-five hundred dollars in reimbursed fraudulent expenses. His mother had refused to mortgage her own house to pay for his retainer.
Rachel Vance sat across from me in my living room on Hawthorne Lane, holding Ethan’s legal filing in her hands.
Dad was sitting at the kitchen island, carefully sanding a piece of oak trim he was preparing to install along the newly repaired back door frame.
"He's asking for three things," Rachel explained, thumbing through the pages. "First, fifty percent equity in Hawthorne Lane, valued at three hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Second, spousal support of three thousand dollars a month due to his sudden loss of employment. Third, thirty percent of any personal injury settlement you receive from North River Emergency Services regarding your accident."
I took a slow sip of my tea, feeling the steady strength returning to my side. "He wants my injury settlement?"
"He claims he suffered 'profound emotional distress and loss of spousal companionship' as a result of your near-fatal accident," Rachel said, her voice dripping with sarcastic disdain.
"Profound emotional distress?" Dad muttered from the kitchen, not stopping his sanding block. "The boy was picking out bridal dresses for his mistress while my daughter was bleeding through her bandages."
"How are we responding, Rachel?" I asked.
Rachel pulled a second file from her leather bag—a file three times thicker than Ethan's submission.
"We are responding with a counter-claim for financial fraud, spousal abandonment, and intentional infliction of emotional distress," Rachel said with a sharp, satisfied smile. "Along with a formal subpoena for Lisa Harmon's bank records."
I raised an eyebrow. "Lisa's records?"
"Marcus found something interesting yesterday," Rachel revealed. "Three weeks before your accident, Ethan opened a joint money-market account at a credit union in Frankfort. The primary name on the account is Lisa Harmon. The secondary name is Ethan Bennett."
"Did he put money in it?"
"Two days before your accident," Rachel said, holding up a certified bank statement, "Ethan deposited a check for fifteen thousand dollars into that account."
I froze, setting my mug down on the table. "Fifteen thousand dollars? Where did he get fifteen thousand dollars?"
"He didn't steal it from your joint account," Rachel said softly. "He took out a fraudulent second-position personal loan against your truck's title—using a forged digital signature with your name on it."
The air left my lungs in a sharp, painful gasp.
He hadn't just cheated on me. He hadn't just waited for me to die. He had committed felony identity theft and loan fraud using my name to give fifteen thousand dollars in cash to his mistress while I was working twelve-hour rescue shifts outside Ashford.
Dad stopped sanding. The rasp of the sandpaper died instantly.
He set the wood down on the counter, stood up slowly, and walked into the living room. His face was entirely calm, but his eyes were like two pieces of flint.
"Identity theft," Dad said quietly.
"Felony identity theft," Rachel corrected. "In the state of Kentucky, forging a signature on a loan document exceeding ten thousand dollars carries a mandatory prison sentence of one to five years."
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I looked at the bank statement in Rachel's hand. The forged signature at the bottom was a sloppy, pathetic attempt to mimic my handwriting—the work of a desperate, arrogant man who believed I would never be alive to read it.
"Call the prosecutor, Rachel," I said, my voice steady, cold, and clear. "Don't settle. Don't negotiate. Put him in handcuffs."
