Susan shook her head and took a few sips of water. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely hold the cup.
Her thoughts were a tangled mess. Mark had never said a word about a loan. Especially not one this big. Where could a debt like that have come from? And why was the bank threatening to take their house?
“Can you show me when the other messages from the bank came in?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Dave nodded and showed her how to open the text thread. Under “Bank,” there were more than twenty messages.
The earliest was from February, a month before the accident. Susan scrolled frantically through the conversation. First, the bank congratulated him on the loan approval, then informed him the funds had been deposited. Then came the payment reminders, each one more insistent than the last. One message specified the loan’s purpose as “personal expenses.” The collateral was their house on Central Avenue.
Mark’s name was on it, dated February 15th.
“This can’t be right,” Susan whispered. “He would have told me. We discussed everything, every major purchase.”
But the proof was right there. The phone even had photos of the documents: the loan agreement, his income statements, the consent forms. All filed under the name Mark C. Morrow, her late husband.
Dave tactfully turned away, pretending to tidy his workspace. But Susan could see the concern in his eyes. It was a mixture of pity and confusion.
“Can I see the transaction history?” she asked.
The banking app had saved all the account activity. Susan opened the outgoing transfers section and gasped. The entire loan amount—$50,000—had been sent to a single recipient in four payments over the course of a week. The recipient: Alina Vance.
The name meant nothing to her. Susan racked her brain. Had Mark ever mentioned a woman by that name? A colleague, a distant relative, anyone? The transfers were labeled “personal assistance.” The amounts were substantial—from $10,000 to $15,000. The last payment was sent on February 28th, two weeks before the crash.
Susan closed her eyes, trying to calm herself. She had to think logically, not give in to panic. Maybe there was an explanation. Maybe Mark had planned to tell her but never got the chance.
“How much do I owe you for the repair?” she asked, getting up from the stool.
“A hundred and fifty,” Dave answered. “But if you’re having a tough time right now…”
“No, it’s fine.”
Susan pulled out her wallet and counted out the cash. Her hands were still trembling, but she tried to appear composed. Dave took the money and handed her his business card.
“If you need anything else with the phone, just let me know. And… hang in there. I’m sure it’ll all work out.”
Susan nodded and headed for the door. The rain had picked up, but she barely noticed. A single thought consumed her: she had to get home and find the paperwork. Maybe Mark had left some kind of explanation.
The bus ride home took half an hour. Susan clutched her husband’s phone to her chest, rereading the bank texts. Each time, the words hit her with the same brutal force.
“Fifty thousand dollars. Fourteen days until auction. Alina Vance.”
The words echoed in her head like a terrible mantra. Susan knew her life had just been split into a “before” and an “after.” And now, she had to unravel the secrets of a husband she thought she knew.
Back home, the first thing Susan did was lock herself in Mark’s home office. The room still smelled of his aftershave and old books. The scent, which used to be comforting, now felt alien. She systematically went through the papers in his desk, hoping for some clue. The top drawers held the usual things: pens, paper clips, old business cards. Susan checked every folder, every envelope. Nothing suspicious.
But when she pulled on the handle of the bottom drawer, it wouldn’t budge. Locked. The key was nowhere in sight. Susan tried to pick the lock with a paperclip, like in the movies, but had no luck. Finally, she got a screwdriver from the kitchen and carefully pried the lock open. With a click, the drawer slid open.
Inside was a neat stack of papers held together with a rubber band. Susan’s fingers trembled as she undid it. They were receipts for money transfers. All of them were addressed to one person—Alina Vance. The amounts varied, from a few hundred dollars to several thousand. The earliest receipt was dated two years ago. Mark had been sending this woman money regularly, long before he took out the loan.
Susan flipped over one of the receipts and froze. On the back, in a child’s handwriting, it said: *“Daddy, when are you coming to get me? Mommy says it will be soon.”* The letters were shaky and smudged, clearly written by a child of six or seven. The next note was even more heartbreaking: *“Daddy, I miss you so much. Please come visit soon.”* And another: *“Mommy bought me a new dress. Do you want to see it?”*
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