Chapter 30
JORDAN
Libby and I settle into a routine that’s …
doable for me. I’m falling for her more and more every day in the small moments we share: looks we share when the cameras are at the house that communicate our mutual amusement at something Erin has asked us to do to amp up tension, dinners together most nights, playing games or watching shows, hanging out with Will and Ellie and the girls.
It’s perfect. It’s a preview of what’s to come for us if I can be patient. It makes the waiting bearable.
It’s over a week before I hear from Mitchell again. I send one follow-up text in the middle of that week to feel like I’m working on his case and not letting it fall by the wayside. He responds with, I’m working on it.
It’s fine. It’s his money. But it is still stressing Baylee out. I tell her to focus on disbursing the money Libby gave us and let me handle this; she complies but still sends me a text every other day asking about it.
Despite my annoyance with his claim, I am relieved when he finally calls on a Monday afternoon.
“I’ve looked everywhere. I can’t find a slip or a statement. Nothing on my computer or emails either,” he says.
I run a hand through my hair and swallow back frustration. How can this be possible? Does he think that he’ll wear me down with this if he just waits it out?
Did he really give Bryce Hayes $500,000? Surely, he’d have something if he did. I can’t wrap my brain around paying that much cash to someone and not keeping the receipts.
“Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice patient.
“I have a couple other avenues we can try. There’s something called a currency transaction report.
Banks are required to file them for cash withdrawals over $10,000.
We can request the record that way. I’m also working on getting some records from the FBI that will help us verify this claim and some others, so no matter what, we should be able to get yours taken care of.
” There’s a long sigh on the other end, and I bite my tongue to keep from telling Mitchell it’s his own fault for not keeping records himself.
“I know this is frustrating, but we’ll figure it out.
I’m doing my best.” I’m going above and beyond what we’ve done for other claims. Even the tough ones were easier to sort out than this.
“Yeah,” Mitchell says shortly. Then his tone changes to something colder. “Pay the claim, Atkinson, and make it easy on yourself.”
I scowl. What’s that supposed to mean? “Sorry, what?” My fingers close into a fist, as though they have muscle memory of exactly what Mitchell deserves.
“Come up with some documentation—whatever you want to put in there—and pay the claim.” He says it calmly, like that’s going to make me do what he says.
“Mitch—” He always hated being called that, and I get satisfaction saying it.
“I want to help you out, but Redhaven can’t write a check based only on a verbal claim.
We’d put in jeopardy the legal status of the foundation and the millions of dollars paid to other victims.” I stay calm too and let confusion leak into my tone. What’s he trying to do here?
“Does your wife know you cheated on her four months ago?” he asks.
Something heavy drops in my stomach. Four months ago, I didn’t even know my wife. Everything public in my life was checked—probably by Caleb Gallagher, now that I think about it—to make sure nothing could contradict our story. I only post hockey stuff, so it was fine.
“Are you trying to blackmail me?” I ask in a low, angry tone.
He chuckles. “Chill, bro. Just wondering if she knows about Daria Cane.”
Her face flashes in my mind. We went on a couple dates a few months ago—four, according to Mitchell.
“Think about it, okay?” he says. “And get back to me.” He hangs up. No more demands. No time frame. He’s that confident I’m going to write a check.
The thing is, there’s a chance I could. I don’t know what he knows about me and Libby. If I have to, I’ll figure out a way to write a check to save her, though it won’t be from the Redhaven Foundation. There’s no way I’ll risk that either.
I search Daria’s name on Instagram and then scroll back through her pictures.
I grumble to myself when I find one of us together four months ago, a selfie she took on our second or third date.
This is my fault. I told Libby I hadn’t really dated anyone the last six months, so the story was plausible.
And I hadn’t. No real relationships. Just four dates with Daria.
A handful of dates here or there with other women.
No relationships. Nothing I thought had made it into the online sphere.
The picture isn’t damning. We could be two friends hanging out.
It’s eerily similar to the first picture Libby posted online of us together, having a casual lunch.
I read the captions of Daria’s posts around the times we went out, but there’s nothing there either.
I let out a frustrated sigh as I sit back.
That means that Mitchell has to have something else that I don’t know about.
He can’t possibly believe I’ll pay his claim based on this picture.
I rack my brain, but those couple weeks weren’t memorable—hence us not going out again.
I thought it was mutual for Daria, and maybe it was but she found a chance to get a payday out of it?
I run a hand through my hair. This makes me feel like I’m more of a problem for Libby than a solution.
First I’m the fake husband who fell in love and wants it to all be real.
That’s definitely not what she signed up for.
Now I’m dragging this into the mix and jeopardizing what she had to sacrifice to buy the White Wolves.
What will Mr. Stevens and the board do if they find out Libby married me just to look like the stable owner they wanted?
Surely we can spin this so I take the fall and it looks as though Libby never knew about my “cheating.”
Worst-case scenario, I tell myself. I need to talk to Libby right away and see what she thinks. She’s the one who has experience in handling PR situations like this.
When Libby’s not in her office, I remember she’s in meetings with the operations staff, finalizing some perks they’re going to offer for family season tickets, and she won’t be done until it’s time to go home.
All the better. This is probably a conversation we need to have away from any possible eavesdropping ears.