Chapter 3 - WHY CHARLOTTE NEEDED THE CAMERAS OFF
The first thing I did was stop assuming.
That sounds obvious.
It wasn’t.
Once betrayal enters a marriage, the mind becomes greedy.
Every unanswered call becomes proof.
Every strange look becomes a confession.
I had photographs of Solomon with Jennifer.
Theo had seen them kissing.
That part was real.
But Gregory Walsh entering my house changed the question.
Why was Solomon’s boss involved?
And why did Charlotte need the cameras disabled for all of them?
Rachel told me:
“Separate what you know from what you suspect.”
So I made two columns.
KNOW
Theo saw Solomon kissing Jennifer in our bedroom.
Jennifer wore my robe.
Charlotte told Theo to keep it secret.
Charlotte repeatedly disabled cameras.
Jennifer texted Solomon instructions involving Charlotte and Theo.
Gregory Walsh entered the property during one of those shutdowns.
DON’T KNOW
Whether Jennifer was involved with Gregory.
Whether Solomon knew Gregory came.
Whether Charlotte was helping only Solomon.
Whether the camera shutdowns all involved the same purpose.
Whether anyone was using the house for something beyond sex.
The second possibility made me sick.
Dad asked:
“Could they be doing business there?”
“Why?”
“Privacy.”
I thought.
Solomon’s agency handled major political campaigns, pharmaceutical accounts and two public companies.
Gregory loved private meetings.
But why our bedroom?
Why my robe?
That part remained personal.
My phone rang.
Solomon.
I answered.
“Hey.”
His voice was tense.
“Have you talked to Jennifer?”
“No.”
“Why would I?”
“She isn’t answering anyone.”
“Maybe she’s busy.”
“Greg’s missing too.”
Interesting.
“What does that have to do with you?”
A pause.
“Nothing.”
Lie.
I could hear it.
Then Solomon said:
“Are you coming home today?”
“Later.”
“Mom said she stopped by.”
I stared.
“She told you?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
“Laundry.”
There it was again.
The bad script.
“Did she do any?”
Silence.
“What?”
“Laundry.”
“You said she went to do laundry.”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know whether your mother did the thing you said she went there to do?”
His voice tightened.
“Why are you being weird?”
I almost laughed.
There it was.
The word women get when questions become inconvenient.
“Just asking.”
Then:
“Did you know Greg was at our house?”
Silence.
Real silence.
Long enough to become physical.
“What?”
“Greg Walsh.”
“His Audi came through the side drive.”
“How do you know?”
“Camera came back online afterward.”
I heard him breathe.
Then:
“Stay at your dad’s.”
My blood went cold.
“What?”
“Stay there.”
“Why?”
“Samantha—”
He stopped.
Wrong name.
I froze.
“Who is Samantha?”
“No one.”
“You just called me Samantha.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes.”
He exhaled hard.
“Listen to me.”
“No.”
“You’re going to tell me what is happening.”
Another pause.
Then:
“Not over the phone.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know who has access.”
That answer terrified me more than an affair.
“Access to what?”
“Our devices.”
I looked at Dad.
He was watching my face.
Solomon continued:
“Jennifer has been collecting material from Greg for months.”
“What material?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Try.”
“Client files.”
“Private recordings.”
“Billing irregularities.”
My mind sharpened.
“Blackmail?”
“I think.”
“And she was using our house?”
Silence.
“Solomon.”
“Yes.”
I stood.
“You knew.”
“Some of it.”
“How much?”
“Not enough.”
“Why was she in our bedroom?”
“That wasn’t supposed to happen.”
The phrase made me sick.
“What was supposed to happen?”
“My mom was letting her use the downstairs office.”
“Why?”
“Because Greg couldn’t know I was helping her.”
Helping her.
The story was widening.
“Helping Jennifer do what?”
“Get evidence.”
“Against Greg?”
“Yes.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“Because he’s been stealing from clients.”
“And?”
“He assaulted her.”
My anger paused.
“What?”
“Two years ago.”
Solomon’s voice changed.
“He cornered her after a client dinner.”
“Did she report it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He threatened her job.”
“Then?”
“She started collecting evidence.”
I sat.
“And you helped her.”
“Yes.”
“By bringing her into our house.”
“My mom suggested it.”
Of course.
“Why Charlotte?”
“She knew Greg from years ago.”
“How?”
Another pause.
This family had endless locked doors.
“Mom worked at the agency before I did.”
I stared.
“What?”
“She was Greg’s executive assistant twenty-five years ago.”
I had never known that.
“Why didn’t she ever tell me?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It never mattered.”
Apparently everything never mattered until it became catastrophe.
“Did Greg assault your mother too?”
Silence.
Then:
“I think so.”
My stomach dropped.
“You think?”
“She won’t talk about it.”
“So your mother helped Jennifer hide evidence because she believed Greg was dangerous.”
“Yes.”
For one moment, the camera shutdowns shifted shape.
Not merely enabling cheating.
Potentially shielding Jennifer from Gregory.
Then I remembered Theo.
The bedroom.
My robe.
The kiss.
“None of that explains you kissing Jennifer.”
Solomon went silent.
Good.
“Say it.”
“I kissed her.”
“Once?”
“No.”
My body went cold.
“How long?”
“About eight months.”
There it was.
No heroic explanation.
No Greg.
No Charlotte.
My husband had helped a woman being abused by her boss and then had an affair with her.
Both could be true.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Dad looked away.
“When?”
“The first time was in May.”
“Where?”
“Hotel.”
“Then our house?”
“Yes.”
My hand started shaking.
“How many times did my five-year-old son have to be taken out of his own home so you could sleep with her?”
“Don’t say it like—”
I laughed.
“Like what?”
He stopped.
Exactly.
“How many?”
“Three.”
“Three.”
“Yes.”
“And Charlotte knew?”
“Yes.”
“Helped?”
Silence.
“Yes.”
That hurt almost more than I expected.
“Did Jennifer know Theo had seen you?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
A pause.
“No.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I didn’t know until later.”
“When?”
“Mom told me.”
“When?”
“About a week after.”
“And what did you do?”
This was the question.
Not affair.
Fatherhood.
He whispered:
“I told her to make sure he didn’t say anything.”
I stopped breathing.
“You told your mother to silence our son.”
“No.”
“That’s exactly what you did.”
“I said not to scare him.”
“You made a five-year-old responsible for protecting your affair.”
“I know.”
“No.”
My voice broke.
“You know now because I found out.”
He started crying on the other end.
“I screwed up.”
“You trained our son to believe telling me the truth could make his father leave.”
Silence.
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
I stood and walked toward the window.
Snow remained along Dad’s deck.
Theo was outside trying to push a plastic shovel through it.
He should have been worrying about snow.
Not marriage.
“Why is Greg at my house today?”
“I didn’t know he was.”
“Does Jennifer?”
“I can’t reach her.”
“Could Charlotte have let him in?”
“No.”
Too quick.
“Why not?”
“Mom hates him.”
“People can hate people and still fear them.”
Solomon went silent.
Then his voice changed.
“Do not go home.”
“I heard you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“Greg may know Jennifer used the house.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“And what does he think is there?”
“Evidence.”
I felt cold.
“What evidence?”
“Jennifer hid copies somewhere.”
“Where?”
“She never told me.”
“Could it be our house?”
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
My home had become:
An affair site.
A covert evidence room.
A child’s secret prison.
And now maybe a target.
“Call police.”
Solomon hesitated.
Of course.
“Why haven’t you?”
“Jennifer begged me not to.”
I almost screamed.
“This is what you do.”
“What?”
“You let whoever is most afraid decide what everyone else is allowed to know.”
Silence.
“Jennifer feared Greg.”
“You helped hide it.”
“Mom feared something.”
“You helped her hide it.”
“You feared losing me.”
“So you made Theo hide it.”
My voice cracked.
“You don’t solve danger, Solomon.”
“You distribute it to quieter people.”
He started sobbing.
I didn’t care.
Not yet.
Then Dad tapped the glass.
Theo was waving from outside.
I waved back.
Normal.
Needed.
“Call police.”
I repeated.
Solomon breathed.
“Okay.”
“Now.”
“Yes.”
We hung up.
Twenty minutes later, detectives went to the house.
Gregory’s Audi was still there.
Gregory was not.
Neither was Charlotte.
But they found blood.
Not much.
Three drops near the downstairs office.
One smeared mark on the hallway wall.
And the smart-home control panel had been ripped open.
Not switched off.
Damaged.
Then the detective called me.
“Mrs. Hale?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know whether your mother-in-law keeps medication at your residence?”
I froze.
“What medication?”
“We found a pill organizer in the guest-room bathroom.”
“That’s hers.”
“Do you know what she takes?”
“Blood pressure medication.”
“Anything else?”
“I don’t know.”
A pause.
“Why?”
He hesitated.
“We found an empty prescription bottle in the trash.”
My pulse changed.
“Name?”
“Charlotte Hale.”
“What was it?”
He pronounced something unfamiliar.
I wrote it down.
Dad searched.
His face changed.
“What?”
He turned the screen.
Clonazepam.
A sedative.
Not blood pressure medication.
Then the detective said:
“We also found a hidden compartment behind the base of her dresser.”
I felt cold.
“What was inside?”
“Cash.”
“Photographs.”
“And several old employee ID cards.”
“Whose?”
A pause.
“One belongs to Gregory Walsh.”
My breathing changed.
“Any others?”
“Yes.”
He read another name.
Jennifer Cole.
Then another.
Charlotte Bennett Hale.
Her maiden name.
All three from the same agency.
Twenty-four years earlier.
My mother-in-law had not simply known Gregory.
She had worked with him.
With Jennifer’s mother.
Because the third woman in one of the old photographs wasn’t Jennifer.
It was a woman who looked almost exactly like her.
And on the back, written in Charlotte’s handwriting, were six words:
We promised never to tell Solomon.
My husband had spent months hiding an affair.
His mother had apparently spent twenty-four years hiding something much older.
And suddenly I understood—
Charlotte had not started turning off cameras because Jennifer entered our marriage.
May you like
She had already known exactly how to make evidence disappear.
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