Chapter 8—Christa #2
I believe him. My husband has been sleeping with my sister long enough to get her pregnant, and the man standing in front of me looks more upset on my behalf than Tate has looked about anything involving me in years.
The thought hurts in a place I don’t have time to examine. “I need to check my credit.”
Simon nods toward the chair. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.” The answer comes too quickly, but he doesn’t comment on it.
I sit at my computer and pull up the first bureau. My fingers shake once while I type my password. I stop, rest my palms against my thighs, and try again.
Simon moves to the other side of the desk rather than hovering behind me. “Do you want coffee?”
“No.”
“Water?”
“No.”
He considers me for a second. “An alibi?”
I look up.
“In case Jai’s lawful requirement becomes burdensome?” His lips twitch.
I snort. “You’d be terrible at it.”
“I have an excellent reputation.”
I wave a shaky hand. “Which is why everyone would know you were lying.”
He looks disappointed. “Damn my honesty.”
The normal exchange steadies me enough to finish logging in. My accounts populate. Studio card, correct. Personal cards, correct. A retail account I closed two years ago, still closed.
Then I see an inquiry from six weeks ago. I lean closer. “I don’t recognize this.”
Simon comes around the desk when I wave him over. He leans beside me, close enough that I catch the clean scent of his shirt. “Did you apply for financing?”
“No. Not for a couple of years.”
He points toward the creditor name. “Car dealer?”
“I don’t recognize it.”
I open another bureau. It has the same inquiry. My stomach turns. “Maybe it’s nothing.”
Simon studies the screen. “Maybe.”
I search the dealer name. The website loads with photographs of cars that cost more than my first house. I stare at the screen until one memory rises above the rest.
“Charla was in the market...”
Simon turns his head toward me.
Six or seven weeks ago, she called furious because Dad refused to buy her a new car.
She’d found one she loved, some limited-production thing with doors that opened in a way doors have no practical reason to open.
Dad told her she had a perfectly good Mercedes and suggested she experience the character-building exercise of paying for her own upgrade.
Charla called him controlling. I told her he was being reasonable, so she didn’t speak to me for four days.
“Oh, my God.”
Simon straightens. “You should call Jai.”
I check the third bureau first. It doesn’t have the inquiry. It’s the one I subscribe to for credit alerts, which explains why I wasn’t notified. Then I dial Jai.
She answers with, “That was fast.”
“Specialty auto lender on two of three bureaus. Credit inquiry six weeks ago.”
“Yours?” Her tone reflects how doubtful she finds that idea.
“I didn’t make it.”
“Do you know who might have?”
I look at Simon. “Charla wanted an exotic car around then. Dad wouldn’t buy it.”
Jai becomes very quiet. “Send me screenshots from both bureaus.”
I do while she’s talking.
“Don’t call the lender yet. I want to determine whether an account was actually opened and how the application was made. Is there anything else?”
I go through every account carefully while Simon returns to the other side of the desk and gives me room to work. Nothing else stands out. “That’s all I see.”
“Good. We’re not assuming Charla did it yet.”
I scoff. “She did.”
“Christa.”
“My sister is at Bellweather pretending to be me while carrying what Tate believes is his baby. Stealing my identity clearly isn’t a problem for her.”
“Exactly. We have enough facts without adding one we haven’t proved.”
Simon looks down, and I can tell he’s trying not to smile.
I point at him. “Don’t.”
His face turns innocent. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jai continues as if she hasn’t heard either of us. “We’re also not accusing her of financial fraud until we have evidence. I’ll find out what I can about the inquiry. You freeze your credit after I confirm I have what I need.”
“Fine.”
“Change your passwords.”
“Yes.”
“Christa?” Jai waits until she has my attention. “You asked me to be ruthless. That means we do this correctly. Rage is useful. Sloppiness isn’t.”
I exhale slowly. “I understand.”
“Good. Send the screenshots.”
We disconnect, and I lean back in my chair, suddenly aware of how tense my shoulders are.
Simon returns to the guest chair. “How expensive was the car?”
“I don’t remember.”
“That’s probably healthier.”
“It had ridiculous doors.”
He winces. “That narrows it to several irresponsible decisions.”
I smile despite myself, then the thought of Charla standing beside Tate wipes it away.
“My sister stole my husband.” I look toward the credit report still glowing on my monitor. “She may have stolen my identity to buy a car. She’s walking around pretending to be me because my marriage is useful to her. What else did she decide was interchangeable?”
The question isn’t really for him. For most of my life, Charla and I have been treated as a matched set.
People bought us the same birthday presents in different colors.
Teachers called us Twin One and Twin Two when they couldn’t remember our names.
Boyfriends asked whether we’d ever switched dates and laughed like they were the first men clever enough to imagine it. I hated it, but Charla loved it.
She liked being able to become me when it was convenient and become herself again when consequences arrived. I let her do it with smaller things often enough that maybe I stopped noticing how much she expected me to absorb. Not with Tate. Never with Tate.
Simon studies my face. “Don’t do that.”
I blink at him. “Do what?”
“Find a way to make her choices your responsibility.”
I frown. “I’m not.”
He shifts forward in the chair. “You’re trying to work backward through every time she crossed a line and decide where you should have stopped her.”
I stare at him until his confidence fades.
His mouth twists. “That sounded less obnoxious in my head.”
“It was fairly obnoxious out loud.”
“I apologize.”
I should be annoyed. Instead, I look down at my hands and admit he’s right. “I know what I shouldn’t have done. I kept forgiving her.”
“She’s your sister.”
I lift a shoulder. “That’s not an excuse.”
“No.” Simon’s voice drops, quieter now. “It’s a reason you expected her to care that she was hurting you.”
My throat aches. I get up before that can become anything more inconvenient and cross to the window. “I need to tell Celeste.”
Simon rises too, but he stays near the desk. “Today?”
“She deserves to know.”
He frowns. “Jai told you not to contact Tate’s family.”
“Dammit.”
“Her instructions were memorable.”
I pace back from the window. “Celeste sat beside me Saturday and defended me while Tate knew Charla was pregnant. She has four daughters, Simon. Her father has spent years making it clear that none of them count the way Tate’s hypothetical son does.
Now Bernard thinks I finally produced the boy who matters more than all four of Celeste’s children. ”
His expression hardens. “That’s ugly.”
“That’s the Meades.” The words leave my mouth automatically and hearing them makes me stop. For years, I’ve said things like that without thinking.
That’s just Judith.
That’s how Bernard is.
Tate doesn’t mean it that way.
Family tradition.
Old money.
Different generation.
I’m suddenly tired of supplying excuses for people who never asked me to.
My phone rings. Tate’s name fills the screen.
Simon glances at it but doesn’t say anything. I let it ring until it stops.
Three seconds later, Charla calls.
A laugh slips out of me. “Apparently, the committee has adjourned.”
Simon raises one eyebrow but wisely keeps his opinion to himself.
I let Charla’s call ring too. She tries again immediately.
Jai told me not to block them. She didn’t tell me I had to answer.
A text arrives from Tate.
Tate: We need to talk before Simon gives you the wrong idea.
I read it twice, then start laughing.
Simon looks concerned. “Christa?”
I turn the screen toward him. He reads the message, and his expression becomes so deeply unimpressed that I laugh harder.
“The wrong idea,” I manage.
Simon hands the phone back with exaggerated care. “I may have accidentally implied he was sleeping with your sister. Very careless of me.”
“I’ll make a note for your witness statement.”
Another message arrives.
Tate: This is complicated. Charla and I can explain.
My laughter stops.
Charla and me.
No denial. No claim that Simon misunderstood. They’ve already moved directly to explanation.
I take screenshots and send them to Jai.
Tate calls again. I decline it this time.
Simon watches me. “Are you okay?”
“No.” The answer comes out before I can dress it up.
He comes closer, then stops a few feet away. “What do you need?”
I look at him. Jai can handle the law. I don’t need reassurance about a future I can’t picture yet. Right now I don’t even know what to do with the next ten minutes.
“I don’t know.”
Simon stays where he is. “Okay.”
He doesn’t reach for me or start filling the room with advice. That helps more than anything he could have said.
My phone vibrates again. This time the message is from Charla.
Charla: Please don’t hate me until I explain.
A second appears before I can finish reading the first.
Charla: You were leaving him anyway.
I stare at the words until they blur, then blink them clear. She knew I was leaving because I trusted her enough to tell her. She used that confidence as permission.
She also started sleeping with Tate long before I told her.
Eleven weeks pregnant.
Long enough that her excuse doesn’t survive the calendar.
I screenshot both messages for Jai and hand the phone to Simon when he watches my face.
He reads them, then looks at me. “Jai told you not to answer.”
“I know.” I take the phone back and set it beside the keyboard. “I’m trying very hard to appreciate her foresight.”
My attempt at humor dies halfway through the sentence.
Another message appears from Tate.
Tate: Don’t do anything rash. Give me the thirty days and I can fix this.