Page 75 of Bracing The Storm

Or maybe it’s simple mistrust.

As I stand to my feet, I glimpse a receipt from an expensive department store charging a few hundred bucks for a toiletry gift basket. There’s another receipt for a pair of high heels, the amount so exorbitant it makes me question the sanity of anyone who would spend so much money on a pair of shoes.

And in that instant I know.

I got it all wrong. It was never Duncan. Patrick was the one who sent the gifts. I should feel relief it was him all along, but something is bothering me.

Why would he gift me expensive stuff so early in our relationship, particularly with us being constantly at each other's throat?

Why would he leave me gifts when he showed his dislike of me from the moment we met?

It doesn’t make any sense.

My heart starts to race.

Instead of giving him a chance to explain I reach to check behind every stack of clothes. It takes me less than a minute to find what I’m looking for. There are three more boxes in total. The first two are empty; the last one isn’t. I open it and retrievea thick Manila folder, then begin flicking through its contents while my heart drops.

All my strength pours out of me. I force myself to sit down before my legs give way beneath me.

There are photos of me walking out of shops and buildings, blissfully unaware of the person invading my privacy.

There are bank account statements highlighting my disastrous financial situation. There are even snippets of correspondence with my last employer—emails that were private, sent through the company’s secure Intranet, and couldn’t possibly be accessible to anyone other than the recipient.

My blood freezes as I realize someone not only followed me around New York; they also hacked into my accounts. Whoever gathered all this information is a professional and probably comes with a hefty price tag.

A price tag Patrick can afford.

Judging from the timestamp on some of the copies, he knew everything about me long before my arrival.

He knew everything yet he said nothing.

I lift a photo of the house I grew up in—a drab two-story building in dire need of repairs—and feel the first sting of unshed tears gathering in my eyes.

I haven’t seen this house in ages.

I’m not ashamed of the place of my childhood, the poverty, the struggles, the pain that came with cutting back on necessities like clothes and heating to get by. I would have happily told him every story if he had asked. But he didn’t. He simply went behind my back and drew his own picture of me before we had even met.

My childhood growing up with a mother who couldn’t make ends meet.

The job that should have been a lifeline but turned into my worst nightmare and branded me for life.

No wonder he thought I had conned the late Ms. Walsh out of his inheritance. The bits and pieces he’s gathered from my life couldn’t possibly lead to a different impression of me.

I know I should stop flicking through the loose sheets, both for my sanity’s sake and to spare myself the heartbreak. But I can’t help myself. I need to know all there is to know. I need to see the magnitude of his betrayal with my own eyes.

There’s even information gathered about the investigation back in NYC. He must have been planning to take me to court. I have no doubt he meant to use the investigation to build a case against me, to give his claim that I had somehow conned his mother out of his inheritance more credibility.

A case he could actually have won. He has the means and the right reputation. I don’t.

Who would believe me--a nobody with no money, no career, and a reputation in tatters?

Who’s to say that the marriage part wasn’t part of his scheme? Maybe his manager or record company advised against any court proceedings so he had to come up with a different strategy.

Suddenly I can see his cruel backup plan.

Get what he wanted by marrying me.

I can’t breathe.

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