Chapter 3
Chapter Three
ELLIE
Seven days. That’s how long I avoided it.
If I ignore something long enough, it’ll go away, right?
Wrong. Because the red document wallet from last week is still there on Sunday afternoon. Still there. Still begging for attention.
And I know, deep down, I can’t leave it any longer.
I reach for my laptop and stare at the lid for longer than necessary before I pry it open, trying to think of any reason not to do this. But I can’t. This is the only way.
I wait for the login screen, tapping my fingers against the table, then I pull up a fresh browser, tapping his name into the search engine with shaky hands.
My search returns almost instantly. His hockey profile. A bunch of news articles. That forum post … then I find what I’m looking for.
His social media.
Page after page of ‘Michael Betts’ but there’s only one that’s actually his and I spot him straight away. A profile picture of him wearing a pair of novelty sunglasses. His grin shining through the screen and a pang of nausea ripples through me.
Oh, God. There’s no way this is a good idea—this is a complete nightmare.
But before I can talk myself out of it, I slide right into the DMs of Mike Betts.
He still hasn’t read it by the next morning.
After the worst night of sleep I’ve ever had, there’s no way I can go on like this—half-guessing, overthinking, waiting.
I need answers, and I need him to check his inbox.
By ten o’clock, I’ve done a full set of nails and a spray tan, and when I check again … there’s still no reply. My message just sits there, unread.
I tell myself if there’s nothing by eleven o’clock, then I’ve got no choice but to seek expert help from Greg, Kathryn’s fiancé.
Another full set of nails later, I’m nipping into the stockroom under the guise of checking the quantity of waxing strips.
Once I’m sure that Kathryn is busy with a client, I pull out my phone and scroll to our sparse message thread—odd comments about Kathryn, a birthday gift for Dad.
Which is probably why he texts back straight away when I ask him if I can come and see him at lunch.
Greg
Everything okay?
Ellie
No, not really. But if you can spare me some time, I’ll explain.
Pls don’t tell Kathryn.
Greg
I can spare 20 minutes at 13:15.
Bring coffee.
And an apple danish.
Don’t tell Kathryn, either.
A danish. Ironic and painfully so.
I slip my phone away and check the wax strip stock, in case Kathryn asks, then head back into the salon and bide my time. Watching the clock. Waiting…
As soon as Kathryn’s back from her break, I duck out onto the street and head straight for the bakery.
Two coffees and one pastry later, I check that the pavement is clear and slip into Greg’s legal firm two doors down.
“Come in and take a seat,” he says, pointing towards a plush tub chair in the middle of his office.
“Why can’t I tell Kathryn about the danish?” I say, handing him the paper bag before sinking down into the chair.
“Probably the same reason I can’t tell her about your visit .” He peers inside, his tongue poking out a little as he reaches for the pastry. “She’s got me on a diet. For the wedding, you know.”
“Right. But she’s not watching you at lunch, is she?”
“No, but she’d know if I bought one. At least I can say a client got me one and I couldn’t say no—I take it you’re not here to talk about your duty as the maid of honour? Has Rick texted you yet? He asked for your number and?—”
“Yeah, he did. I think he’s trying to work out a few plans … but—” I clear my throat.
Greg takes a bite and leans all the way back, like he’s lounging on a deckchair.
“So … I appreciate you sparing me some time. I know you’re busy and with?—”
“What’s going on, Ellie? Is this about the parking ticket?” He comically pops his seat up so he’s facing me, a rogue flake of pastry dangling off his beard. I stare at it for a moment before answering.
“There wasn’t a parking ticket … which is why you can’t tell Kathryn.”
He shrugs, eyeing the danish. “We’ve already established that this is a confidential meeting.”
“You’ve got a little something … anyway. Let me …” I slide my handbag off my shoulder and open the clasp, all while Greg watches me, his brows furrowing together as he waits. The red plastic document wallet makes an appearance, and I undo the popper with a shaky hand before reaching inside.
“Just wanted to get your take on this.”
I hand the offending scrap of paper to him, trying my hardest to keep my hand steady. He sets the rest of his pastry down on the paper bag, wiping his fingers on the leg of his trousers before taking it from me.
“Wha—” His eyes flick between me and the paper for a moment before studying the document.
“It’s in German,” he says.
“It’s in Danish,” I correct.
He turns it over in his hands before settling on the upper side, musing over it for several seconds before pulling his phone from the top drawer of his desk.
I watch in nervous anticipation as Greg follows the same process I did last week, almost step by step. He taps something into his phone and waits for the results to return, his face changing in expression several times before he settles on a sombre, professional bearing before meeting my eyes.
Then he flicks them back down to the paper.
Then back to meet my eyes again.
“Uh—” He shifts in his seat. “El, you know I’m a conveyancer, right?”
“Well, yeah, but law is law, right?”
“Well, yeah, but no. This isn’t my bag.”
“But you know someone who can help?” My tone rises a few levels as desperation sets in.
“Sure but—” He runs his hands through his hair and reaches for his coffee, taking a gulp before loosening his tie. “Where did you get this?”
“It turned up in the bags of old papers. I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but then I saw a video while doomscrolling and … look.”
I pull my phone out of my bag and work my way through the process of pulling up the video I’m referring to before handing it to Greg; waiting for the longest time as he watches.
He frowns several times before clearing his throat.
“Are you sure this is legit?” he asks.
“Honestly, no … which is why I’m here, but I don’t have the best luck with this sort of thing.”
He studies the paper again, rubbing his beard.
“I’ll need to make a few calls. Are you okay leaving this with me?” He holds up the paper and I nod.
“How long do you think you’ll need?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ll try not to drag it out.”
I nod again, shoving the folder back in my bag and getting to my feet.
“Thanks, Greg.”
I’m halfway to the door when his voice stops me in my tracks. “El?”
“Yeah? ”
“If I were you, I’d find this Michael Betts fella.”
My stomach drops. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“Well, yeah, but … do you know where he’s living now?”
“Not really,” I say.
“I suggest you ask around,” he says.
I dip my head. “Right.”
“And remember—Mum’s the word.” He taps the side of his nose as I exit.