Chapter 3 - Carter Ridge
At 8:04 the next morning, Nia was sitting at Imani’s kitchen island with black coffee she had not touched.
The transfer stared back from her laptop.
$68,400.
The money had left their joint savings account on February 17.
Three days later, $20,000 had returned.
Marcus had told Nia that the temporary movement had been connected to a commercial escrow issue and that everything was resolved.
She had believed him.
Now forty-eight thousand four hundred dollars remained missing.
“Maybe it came back another way,” Imani said.
Nia scrolled.
“No.”
“What was the balance before?”
“One hundred and twelve thousand.”
Imani whistled softly.
Nia hated the sound.
Not because of Imani.
Because numbers were supposed to behave.
Numbers did not cry.
Numbers did not manipulate scripture.
Numbers did not say they loved you while sleeping with someone else.
A number was a fact.
Forty-eight thousand four hundred dollars was missing.
Nia searched the Georgia Secretary of State business database.
Carter Ridge Holdings LLC appeared immediately.
Formation date: February 9.
Registered agent: Marcus Carter.
Organizer: Denise Carter.
Nia stopped breathing.
“Imani.”
Her friend leaned over.
“Oh, hell.”
“Denise organized it.”
The ownership information was not listed publicly.
Nia clicked through another document.
The registered address was Denise’s house.
Imani pulled out the stool beside her.
“You need a lawyer.”
“I need my husband to explain why his mother created a company that received almost seventy thousand dollars from our savings account.”
“You need both.”
Nia called Marcus.
He answered on the first ring.
“Where are you?”
“Don’t start with that.”
“I just wanted to know if you were okay.”
“I found Carter Ridge.”
Silence.
Nia looked at Imani.
There it was again.
That silence.
A confession before words.
“Nia,” Marcus said finally, “I can explain.”
“Good. Explain.”
“It was an investment.”
“With my money?”
“Our money.”
Nia laughed.
“Interesting time to become technical.”
“I was going to tell you.”
“When?”
“After the refinance.”
“What refinance?”
Marcus breathed out.
“Can we do this in person?”
“No.”
“Nia.”
“You’ve had six months of private meetings. I’m done attending them.”
Marcus went quiet.
She continued.
“What did Carter Ridge buy?”
“A property.”
“What property?”
Another pause.
“Westhaven.”
Nia stood so quickly the stool nearly tipped.
Imani caught it.
“No.”
“Nia—”
“No.”
Westhaven.
The boarded brick building on Westhaven Avenue.
The one Nia had discovered nine months earlier.
An old 1920s neighborhood pharmacy with tall windows, original tile and a neglected upstairs apartment.
Nia had stood inside it with Marcus and described exactly what she imagined.
Her design studio downstairs.
Rental office space upstairs.
A courtyard for small community workshops.
Marcus had kissed her amid the dust and said, “We’re going to make this yours.”
She had drawn preliminary plans for free.
Spent evenings calculating renovation costs.
Then Marcus told her the seller had accepted another offer.
Nia’s vision blurred.
“You bought Westhaven?”
“Carter Ridge bought it.”
“Who owns Carter Ridge?”
“Nia—”
“Who owns it?”
Marcus’s voice dropped.
“Me and Mom.”
The kitchen disappeared.
Nia saw only the old building.
Her building.
Not legally.
Not technically.
But emotionally.
She had found it.
Designed it.
Dreamed inside it.
And her husband had taken joint marital money to buy it through an LLC with his mother.
“Where does Lauren fit?”
Marcus said nothing.
Nia closed her eyes.
“Where does Lauren fit, Marcus?”
“She brokered the purchase.”
Imani mouthed a curse.
Nia lowered herself onto the stool.
“So you bought the property I wanted with the woman you were sleeping with and put your mother’s name on the company.”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“Please tell me what combination of facts makes it better.”
“We were trying to protect the property.”
“From me?”
“No.”
“Then why isn’t my name anywhere?”
“Because your business credit—”
“Stop.”
Her voice cut through him.
“My credit score is seven hundred eighty-one.”
“I know.”
“My company has been profitable for five years.”
“I know.”
“So try again.”
Marcus sighed.
“Mom needed an asset.”
Nia frowned.
“For what?”
He did not answer.
“Marcus.”
“Her house.”
Nia stared at the screen.
“What about her house?”
“She was behind.”
“How far behind?”
“More than she told anybody.”
Nia remembered Denise’s immaculate home.
The Sunday dinners.
The fresh flowers.
The expensive church hats.
“You used our savings to save her house?”
“Westhaven was part of a larger refinancing plan.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“I know.”
“Then make it make sense.”
Marcus sounded tired.
“Mom took out loans after Dad died. Some were secured against the house. She got behind. Carter Ridge was supposed to buy Westhaven, renovate it, then use the equity from the project to stabilize everything.”
“With my design work.”
“Nia—”
“You were going to use my plans?”
“They were preliminary.”
Nia closed her laptop.
That tiny technical distinction told her more about Marcus than another confession could have.
He was still defending ownership.
Still dividing betrayal into categories small enough to survive.
“Did Denise know the money came from our account?”
“Yes.”
“Did Lauren?”
“Yes.”
Nia’s stomach turned.
Three people had known.
Three people had discussed her money.
Her plans.
Her marriage.
And she had been the only person excluded.
Marcus spoke again.
“There’s something else you need to understand.”
Nia laughed weakly.
“Apparently that sentence is the theme of my life now.”
“The closing documents.”
“What about them?”
“Your design company is listed.”
Nia went still.
“Listed how?”
“As the intended renovation contractor.”
“I never agreed to that.”
“I know.”
“Did you sign my company to something?”
“No. Nothing binding.”
“Then what?”
Marcus hesitated.
“The lender has a project package.”
Nia’s voice became quiet.
“What’s in it?”
“Your drawings.”
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The coffee beside her had gone cold.
So had she.
