Chapter 4: The Name Hidden in My Marriage
For several seconds, I couldn't hear anything except the rain against the windows.
Harold Bennett's words hung over the dining table.
Someone had been asking questions about me.
Questions connected to James Walker's estate.
I looked at Marcus, expecting him to demand an explanation. Instead, he stared at the papers spread before Harold, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and suspicion.
Denise was the only person who seemed to understand how dangerous those words might be.
She rose abruptly.
"This conversation is over.""
Harold didn't move.
"Sit down, Denise.""
"This is my house.""
"And those are James's documents. You don't get to end the conversation simply because you don't like where it's going.""
Denise's lips tightened. She reached for her phone, but Marcus caught her wrist before she could pick it up.
"Mom, wait.""
She looked down at his hand as if he had committed a greater offense than anything that had happened that evening.
"Take your hand off me.""
Marcus released her.
"Why is Tasha's name connected to Dad's estate?""
"I don't know.""
Harold leaned back in his chair.
"That answer came quickly.""
"Because it's the truth!""
"Then you won't mind explaining why you looked frightened when I mentioned her name.""
Denise's face reddened.
"I am tired, Harold. I have spent this entire evening being insulted in my own home. My daughter-in-law threw food on me, my son has forgotten how to respect me, and now you're sitting here interrogating me about a man who has been dead for six years.""
She gestured toward the ruined table.
"Look at this mess!""
I followed her gaze.
The soup had soaked into the tablecloth. A fork lay beside Marcus's overturned napkin. The roast beef had gone cold, and one of the candles had burned so low that wax pooled around its base.
For a moment, I felt the familiar urge to apologize.
I could hear the words forming in my mind.
I'm sorry about the soup.
I'm sorry about Christmas.
I'm sorry everyone had to witness this.
Then I remembered Marcus's voice.
Consider that a lesson.
My hand still felt tender where Denise had struck it.
I swallowed the apology.
"You're right about one thing," I said.
"This evening has been humiliating.""
Denise turned toward me with a satisfied expression.
"Good. Then perhaps you'll understand—"
"But not because of the soup.""
Her expression changed.
I stood and pushed my chair beneath the table.
"It's humiliating because I came here believing I was part of a family. I cooked the side dishes you asked me to bring. I bought gifts for everyone.
I spent two hours getting ready because I wanted tonight to be special. And the first time I reached for a serving spoon, you hit me.""
Denise opened her mouth.
I continued before she could interrupt.
"Then my husband watched you do it and told me to be a better wife.""
Marcus looked away.
"I have spent three years making excuses for the way you treat me," I said.
"I'm not making another one tonight.""
"Tasha," Marcus muttered, "you're being dramatic again.""
I turned toward him.
"Say that one more time.""
He blinked.
"What?""
"Say that I'm being dramatic. Look me in the eyes and say it.""
His mouth tightened.
He didn't speak.
For the first time in our marriage, I watched him struggle to find the right words because the old ones no longer worked.
Harold quietly closed his briefcase.
"I think we need to separate two matters," he said.
"What happened at dinner is one matter. The estate is another. Both deserve answers, but neither should be used to distract from the other.""
He removed a business card from his wallet and placed it in front of me.
"This is my attorney's contact information. I would like you to speak with her privately.""
"Why me?""
"Because someone requested information about you using a name that appears in James's estate records.""
"What name?""
Harold hesitated.
"That is what we need to establish.""
Denise gave a sharp, humorless laugh.
"How convenient. You arrive with a folder full of mysterious papers, make accusations, and suddenly Tasha is the center of everything.""
Harold looked at her steadily.
"I didn't choose the name on the inquiry.""
"Then show us the inquiry.""
"I will, once I confirm that sharing it won't compromise an ongoing review.""
Marcus stood straighter.
"An ongoing review? What does that mean? Are you saying someone stole money?""
"I'm saying there are discrepancies that need to be examined. I won't accuse anyone without evidence.""
Denise folded her arms.
"Then stop speaking as if I've done something wrong.""
Harold rose.
"I have asked you several times to explain the missing correspondence. You haven't answered.""
"Because I don't have to answer you.""
"No," he said quietly.
"You don't. But you may eventually have to answer the people legally entitled to those records.""
He picked up his coat.
Before leaving the dining room, he turned toward Marcus.
"Your father left you more than property. He left instructions about how his children were supposed to be treated. You should read them before deciding whose side you're on.""
Marcus's face darkened.
"Don't tell me how to handle my family.""
Harold paused beside the doorway.
"Then handle it.""
He left his card on the table and walked toward the front door.
Denise followed him into the hallway, speaking in a low, furious voice. Their words became indistinct as the door opened and closed.
The house seemed enormous without them.
Renee and David gathered their coats from the living room. Renee stopped beside me and touched my shoulder.
"I'm sorry I didn't stand up for you sooner.""
I looked at her.
"Why didn't you?""
Her eyes filled.
"Because Denise has always been like this. If you disagree with her, she makes sure everyone knows how ungrateful you are. She turns the whole family against you.""
"That doesn't make it right.""
"I know.""
Renee glanced toward Marcus, who was staring at the papers Harold had left behind.
"I should have said something anyway.""
I nodded.
It wasn't forgiveness. Not yet.
But it was the first honest thing anyone in that family had said to me all evening.
After Renee and David left, Marcus carried the documents into the living room. I followed him because I needed answers, even if I no longer trusted him to give them.
He placed the folder on the coffee table and began sorting through the pages.
"Have you ever heard of Danielle?"" I asked.
"No.""
"Not once?""
"No, Tasha.""
He sounded genuinely confused.
I studied his face.
"Then why did your mother react like that when Harold mentioned her?""
Marcus rubbed his forehead.
"Because my mother hates anything she can't control.""
The admission surprised me.
He had spent years defending Denise's behavior, calling her protective, old-fashioned, and misunderstood. Hearing him describe her differently felt like finding a crack in a wall I had once believed was solid.
"Why didn't you tell me she could be cruel?"" I asked.
He looked up.
"What?""
"You know what she does to people. You know how she talks to me. Why did you keep telling me to ignore it?""
Marcus placed the papers down.
"Because she's my mother.""
"And I'm your wife.""
"I know that.""
"Do you?""
He stood and walked toward the Christmas tree. Its lights reflected in the dark window behind him.
"My father died, and everything fell apart," he said.
"Mom stopped trusting people. She became obsessed with protecting what was left. I thought if I kept her happy, things would be easier.""
"For whom?""
He didn't answer.
I stepped closer.
"Marcus, when she slapped me, you didn't hesitate. You didn't even look surprised. You told me she was teaching me to be a better wife.""
He lowered his head.
"I shouldn't have said that.""
"No. You shouldn't have believed it.""
He looked at me then, and I saw the beginnings of shame.
"I'm sorry.""
The words came too late to repair anything.
"Why did Harold say someone had been asking questions about me?""
"I don't know.""
"Then we need to find out.""
Marcus glanced toward the folder.
"We will.""
I shook my head.
"Don't make promises just because you're frightened.""
He flinched.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
Then he opened the folder again and lifted a photograph from beneath the documents.
It showed a younger James Walker standing beside a woman with a little girl. The photograph had been taken in front of a modest brick house. James was smiling, one hand resting on the woman's shoulder.
The girl looked about eight years old.
On the back, in faded handwriting, were four words.
Danielle and her daughter.
Marcus stared at the photograph.
"My father had another family.""
"Apparently.""
He turned it over again.
There was a date beneath the inscription.
The year was twenty-six years earlier.
I took the photograph from him and studied the little girl's face. She had wide, dark eyes and a small crescent-shaped birthmark near her left eyebrow.
Something about her expression felt strangely familiar.
Not because I recognized her.
Because I recognized the look in her eyes.
It was the same guarded expression I saw in the mirror whenever Denise entered a room.
I handed the photograph back.
"Whoever she is, she deserves to know what happened.""
Marcus nodded slowly.
Then his phone vibrated on the coffee table.
A message appeared from an unknown number.
*Stop looking into your father's estate. You have no idea what your mother did to keep you safe.*
Marcus read it twice.
His face changed.
I reached for the phone.
"Who sent that?""
He pulled it away instinctively, then seemed to realize what he had done.
"I don't know.""
"Let me see.""
He handed it over.
There was no name, no photograph, and no other message.
I stared at the screen.
The message wasn't threatening us to protect an inheritance.
It was warning Marcus about his mother.
I looked toward the hallway where Denise had disappeared.
Then I turned back to my husband.
"Marcus, I think your mother knows exactly who has been asking questions about me.""
He looked at the photograph in his hand.
And for the first time, he seemed to understand that the truth might be much closer than either of us wanted it to be.
Because the next page in Harold's folder contained a photocopy of an official document.
At the top was the name of the law firm handling James Walker's estate.
Beneath it was a handwritten note.
*Beneficiary identification pending. Verify connection to Tasha Morgan.*
My maiden name.
I had never met James Walker.
May you like
So why had his estate been waiting for someone to verify my identity?
And why had Denise spent six years making sure nobody asked?