Chapter 4 - The Offer
Foster’s counteroffer arrived in an envelope delivered by a courier.
The return address was not his office. It was a post office box in downtown Canton. Naomi opened it while I sat across from her desk.
Inside was a handwritten note and a typed agreement.
The note said, Renata, I still love you. Let’s solve this privately.
The agreement offered me $25,000, required me to leave the Canton house within ten days, and stated that neither of us would make “further accusations” about the marriage or Marguerite’s conduct.
There was a blank line for my signature.
I looked at Naomi. “Is this a joke?”
“It is an attempt to make your silence cheaper than his exposure.”
“He knows I contributed $145,000.”
“He also knows you are under pressure. That is why we do not negotiate from panic.”
The phone rang. It was Priscilla.
I almost let it go to voicemail.
Then I answered.
“Renata?” Her voice trembled. “I know I have no right to call.”
“You have my husband’s attention. Apparently that comes with rights.”
She flinched audibly. “I deserve that.”
“Why are you calling?”
“Because Foster told me you were leaving him months ago.”
The anger in me shifted direction but did not disappear.
“I never said that.”
“I know that now.”
“When did you learn?”
“The day I saw your name embroidered on the apron.”
I said nothing.
Priscilla continued, “He told me your marriage was over in everything but paperwork. He said the house was going to be sold and that he would use his share to start fresh.”
“Did he tell you about the deed?”
“He said you had no real claim because the money came from your grandmother and the house was a marital asset.”
Naomi lifted a finger, telling me to put the call on speaker. I did.
“Did he ask you for money?” Naomi asked.
Priscilla went silent.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Eight thousand dollars. He said he needed it for an attorney and a deposit on an apartment.”
My stomach turned.
“Did you give it to him?”
“I gave him six thousand. I thought we were building a life.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“He asked me to sign something saying I had never lived with him.”
I looked at Naomi.
“Why?” I asked.
“He said it was for the divorce. Then he told me his mother was going to move into the house permanently, and I realized I had no idea what he was doing.”
Priscilla sent copies of the texts while we were still on the phone. Foster had promised her a future, a home, and a business partnership in a small meal-prep company they had discussed starting.
In one message, he wrote, Once Renata is out, everything becomes simple.
In another, he wrote, Mom knows how to handle the deed situation.
My skin prickled.
“What did he mean by that?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Priscilla said. “I thought he meant your house.”
Naomi asked Priscilla to preserve every message and not contact Foster again unless Naomi instructed her.
When the call ended, I opened our joint bank statements.
I had been doing that for three days, but until then I had searched only for missing money. Now I searched for patterns.
There were monthly transfers to M. Bell Support, usually between $400 and $900. I had assumed they covered Marguerite’s medication, groceries, and utilities. But the amounts varied around the same dates that rent would have been due on the Dayton property.
There were also four payments to Heartland Asset Solutions, each just under $10,000.
The description on the account was consulting services.
Foster had never mentioned them.
“Naomi,” I said, “I found something.”
She leaned over the screen.
“Do you recognize this company?”
“Heartland Asset Solutions,” she read. “The same name from the quitclaim deed.”
“Four payments.”
“Do you know what they were for?”
“No.”
“Could they be connected to Marguerite?”
“They could be connected to anyone. But the timing matters. We will request the underlying statements and ask Foster to account for marital funds during the process.”
I scrolled farther back.
Eight months earlier, Foster had transferred $12,000 from our joint savings to an account ending in 4418. I had never seen that account. Two days later, he had withdrawn $7,500 in cash.
The remaining money had gone to a company called Priscilla Vane Catering.
“That’s her business,” I said.
Priscilla had not mentioned that Foster had paid her company directly.
I called her back.
She answered immediately.
“Did Foster ever pay you from an account that was not his?”
“What do you mean?”
“A payment to your catering business for $4,500.”
The silence returned.
“He said it was a loan,” she whispered. “He wanted me to buy equipment. He said we would share the business.”
“Did you know the money came from a joint account?”
“No.”
The affair had become a financial web. Foster had used our savings to impress Priscilla, sent money through his mother’s mysterious company, and now offered me $25,000 to disappear.
“I am sorry,” Priscilla said.
“Were you sorry when you were kissing him?”
“No.”
Her honesty stopped me.
“I was selfish,” she continued. “I believed what he told me. That does not make me innocent.”
For the first time, I understood that Priscilla might not be the villain I had wanted her to be. She had participated in the betrayal, but Foster had built a story designed to recruit her.
That evening, an alert appeared on my phone from the county property system.
A document had been submitted for recording against my Canton address.
The description read: Notice of Intended Transfer.
My pulse accelerated.
Foster had not signed the counteroffer.
May you like
He had tried to move the house.
And somewhere in the county recorder’s office, someone was attempting to make it look as if I had already agreed.
