Page 63 of Cakewalk

“Did you ever tell anyone he was abusive?” the older man asked, disbelief in his tone. “I wasn’t able to find where you ever reported any kind of incident. So, maybe a friend? Family? A counselor?”

“No. No one would have believed me. So I kept it to myself.” Gigi shuddered at the thought, the feeling of isolation returning. To everyone else she and Bradley were the picture-perfect couple. They had everything—the house, the wealth, the connections. Too bad it was all a well-crafted façade.

“And made a plan to leave.”

“Yes. I knew I would have a chance the night before the ceremony, since Bradley was all about tradition. So I bought a cheap car, and I left.”

“And that was the last time you saw Mr. Hawthorne? The night before the renewal? You’ve had no contact since?”

“I left him! Why would I be in contact with him?”

He opened the top file and pulled out a piece of paper, sliding it toward her.

“Do you know what this is?”

“It looks like a death certificate,” she said, reading the lettering at the top. He nodded at her to continue reading. Glancing back down she skimmed the page, her blood running cold as she processed what she was looking at. “This is…this is my death certificate! But I’m not dead!”

“Clearly,” he answered, deadpan.

“It’s dated October fifteenth. How? Why? I don’t understand.” Her pulse sped up, and her mind was racing. How could this be? What did this mean?

“This was submitted to your insurance company on October sixteenth. Less than one week after you disappeared. It was submitted with a request to pay out your life insurance to an account in the Cayman Islands.”

“The Cayman Islands?”

“Yes, ma’am. The account was in the names of Bradley Preston Hawthorne and Ayla Nancy Hatche.”

“Who is Ayla Hatche?”

“You tell me.” The look he gave her made her uneasy, like he knew something she didn’t and he was just waiting to pull the rug out from under her.

“How am I supposed to know? I’ve never heard that name in my life.”

“So, that’s not a new identity for you?”

“New identity?” she exclaimed. Just what did he think she was trying to do here? The thought had never occurred to her to use a fake name when she recreated herself, just an old nickname. If she’d been trying to be discreet, why would she have chosen such an odd name? Wait one second…

"Wait…the name on the account. Was it eye-la? Or A-la? Is it spell A-y-l-a?” she asked, suddenly connecting the dots.

“Yes, A-y-l-a. So you admit it’s yours?”

“It’s not mine,” she said softly. “And it’s pronounced A-la, like Kayla without the K. Ayla Hachette is Bradley’s secretary.” Her stomach sank as she said the words out loud. His secretary? She’d never liked that tall, leggy brunette but had told herself that she was just being insecure. Just because she reminded her of the trampy secretary in Love Actually who seduced Alan Rickman didn’t mean that was actually what was going on. Or maybe it did.

Bradley had sworn up and down to her so many times that he’d never been unfaithful. And all those times he’d turned it back on her, accusing her of only coming up with the idea because she was the one fooling around behind his back. She’d always known her gut was right, yet she’d let him convince her she was seeing things. I should have left him sooner…

“Mrs. Hawthorne, how did your husband end up in Lake Lanier?” the detective asked, bringing her back to the moment.

“How am I supposed to know? I was here, in Vermont!”

“And the account that was in only your name? That is now mostly empty?”

“My trust fund? It’s always been in just my name. That’s Shaw family money. My father set it up as an irrevocable account or something, so that whoever I married couldn’t touch it. In the event of my death, the money reverts back to the family trust, I think.” She’d never paid a whole lot of attention when investments and money were being discussed—numbers were boring. Although she was starting to regret that choice right about now. But she knew that money was hers and hers alone. Even that death certificate wouldn’t have changed that.

“So where’s the money?” he asked.

“I cashed it out shortly before I left. It’s how I paid for the car and everything since I got here,” she told him. She’d been so careful to only pay for things in cash so that she could stay off the grid. She hadn’t wanted anyone to be able to find her. Even her Busy Bean paychecks were still sitting in a drawer in her room, uncashed. Opening a bank account would have been too risky, and she hadn’t taken the time to try and find some place that might cash them without one. “How did y’all even find me? I’ve paid in cash for everything since then.”

"You used your social security number on your employment paperwork at the uhhh…Busy Bean Café,” he said, reading from another piece of paper. “We were able to track you through that.”