by Laura Wolfe
All the while, the voicemails, emails, and texts piled up on my phone. I scanned them when Damon wasn’t looking, just to make sure there were no emergencies, no fires to put out. Most of the calls were showing requests for Arlington on the Park, which I forwarded to Jacqueline. I turned off my phone and hid it in my pocket.
Later that afternoon, we changed into our formal clothes. I wore a floral dress with long sleeves and a plunging neckline. Damon whistled at me as I emerged from the bathroom, my legs feeling long and lean in my three-inch heels. I whistled right back at him because he looked like a million bucks in his suit and tie.
Damon and I held hands as we sat next to Matt and Beth at the old stone church and watched Brianna profess her love to the man she was marrying. I’d never met him, but by the tears in his eyes, as he recited his vows, I could tell she made him happy. As Damon squeezed my palm in his, I couldn’t help wondering if we’d be standing in their spots one day and whether Damon was wondering the same thing.
The reception took place in the airy ballroom of our hotel, featuring an impressive selection of appetizers and drinks, and a quartet of violinists playing classical music in the background. The aroma of fresh flowers and mini quiches swirled around us, and I was thankful my hangover had passed. I looped my arm inside Damon’s, envisioning the look on his face when he’d see me later wearing the lacey number I’d picked up from a boutique on Chestnut Street.
We stepped toward the windows, the blue-gray waves crashing against the shoreline.
Damon squeezed my hand. “Look at that view. It’s so cool.”
“Yeah.” I took a sip of my wine, awed by the way Lake Michigan stretched on forever and thankful that Jacqueline was somewhere on the other side.
Brianna’s older brother stepped next to us, and I introduced Damon to him. My cell phone buzzed from inside my purse. At first, I ignored it, annoyed at the intrusion during my weekend off. I promised Damon there’d be no real estate. No Jacqueline. But the unanswered call nagged at me. Who was it? After a couple of minutes of small talk, the mystery voicemail became an itch I needed to scratch. I pulled my phone from my clutch and checked my messages. Justin Cotwell. He was a buyer I’d been working with for the last few weeks. He’d been looking to buy a townhome in the River North area, and I’d shown him just about every property on the market. Justin would have to wait. This weekend was about Damon and me.
I refocused on the conversation in front of me. Damon and Brianna’s brother talked about all the resort towns on Michigan’s west coast. My phone dinged with a text. I tipped my head back and sighed, reaching into my clutch again.
The text was from Justin. Want to write an offer on 30 S. Canal ASAP. Call me back.
My heart sunk as I squeezed Damon’s shoulder, interrupting his conversation. I pointed toward the door. “I need to go make a phone call.”
He cocked his head at me but nodded.
The noise from the party was quieter in the hallway. I pressed Justin’s number on my phone and waited.
“Mara!” he said after one ring. “I found the perfect property. I walked through the open house today. I don’t want to miss out on this one. Can you meet up with me right now, so I can write up an offer?”
I cringed at the horrible timing. “Actually, I’m in Michigan at a wedding. But I can meet you tomorrow afternoon as soon as I get back.”
“Oh, man! Is there another realtor at your office I could meet with tonight? Maybe that Jacqueline woman? I really want this townhome. I’m going to offer full price.”
My chest tightened at the thought of losing the deal. Or, even worse, having to give Jacqueline a cut. Although his timing was awful, I needed to keep Justin happy. In six weeks, I’d separate myself from Jacqueline, and I’d need all the referrals I could get.
Holding the air in my lungs, I silently debated my options. “Tell you what, I can cut my weekend short and come back first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll meet you at 9:00 a.m. at my office. I’ll call the listing agent and let them know you’ll be submitting an offer in the morning and not to accept anything else before then.”
He sighed on the other end. “I guess that would work. As long as you call the listing agent right now.”
“Don’t worry. I’m on it.”
“Great. I’ll see you at 9:00.”
I pulled Damon into a corner, crouching low in an attempt to appear small and meek as I broke the news to him.
“That was a client. I’m so sorry, but we need to be on the road by 6:30 a.m. tomorrow, at the latest.” I squeezed his hands in mine.
He laughed at first, but when I didn’t laugh too, his face froze, and his mouth pulled back.
“I need to get back to Chicago as soon as possible, or I’m going to lose this deal,” I said.
Damon’s back straightened, his lip twitching with anger. “What about brunch? And our plans to drive up the coast and explore all the towns?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have a choice.”
“Of course you do. Tell him you’ll meet him later.”
“I can’t.”
We were the first to leave the reception. My sudden change in plans had ruined the night as far as Damon was concerned. Back in our room, I left a message for the listing agent and pulled up some comps to prepare for my meeting with Justin in the morning. Damon fell asleep on the bed, his back to me.
I drove my BMW west on 94, darting in and out of the Sunday morning drivers, and trying not to think about the unused lingerie neatly folded into the corner of my suitcase. Damon leaned back in the front seat, barely speaking a word. I clenched the steering wheel with sweaty hands, too distracted to care.
Two long hours later, I dropped my angry boyfriend in front of his building and apologized for the one-hundredth time for the change in plans.
He shrugged. “I need to study anyway.” He slammed the door in my face and strode toward his building.
A wave of heat rushed toward my face, but I blinked away the tears. I’d win Damon back later when I had more time to think and explain myself, when Jacqueline was a merely a speck in my rearview mirror. Right then, I needed to focus on keeping my career alive. Someday, Damon would understand that I didn’t have a choice. I was doing this for us. It was the only way to break free from Jacqueline.
43
After dropping off Damon, I realized I’d left Justin’s file in my desk drawer at the sales center. I drove toward Arlington on the Park in a daze, not letting my mind wander to anything other than picking up the papers before meeting Justin at Greystone. The Sunday morning traffic was light, but parked cars lined every inch of the one-way street outside the sales center. I double-parked and threw on my flashers, jogging up to the door and hoping for a quick in and out, especially if Jacqueline was there.
Footprints in the snow led toward the door, and I paused, bracing myself to have to deal with her. When I turned the handle, it was locked. I released a puff of air. Thank God. She wasn’t there. If she knew I’d returned early, she’d make me cover the open house this afternoon. Unlocking the door, I slipped inside. Justin’s file lay right where I’d left it inside the top drawer of my desk.
As I turned, the laptop on Jacqueline’s desk caught my eye. The computer was powered off and closed. I paused. It wasn’t like her to leave without it. She must have been in a hurry. The corner of a manila folder peeked out from under her computer. I wondered if she’d sold more units yesterday. With a $60 million sellout expected, the total commissions earned on the development would be close to $3 million. My cut was only twenty percent of Jacqueline’s half of the selling side, but still, the referral fees were adding up.
I removed the folder and opened it up to see which unit had sold. Instead of the contract I expected to see, an IDFPR complaint form lay in full view. A neon yellow sticky note clung to the top right corner of the page: CC Police Department. What did that mean? Was someone filing a complaint against Jacqueline? I started reading it.
Complainant: Jacqueli
ne Hendersen
Respondent: Mara Butler
My knees almost buckled beneath me. What the hell? Was Jacqueline filing a complaint against me? I placed my hands on the desk to support my weight and forced myself to keep reading.
While previewing a property with Mara Butler (Respondent) on April 24, I witnessed her stealing a box containing jewelry from my client, Julia Johnson’s condominium. I have proof that she stole my client’s property, as I happened to be taking a video of the outside of the condominium for marketing purposes when Respondent exited the condominium with the box. I did not realize until months later that the box contained valuable jewels owned by my client.
The air left my body, my head spinning as I tried to make sense of the discovery. The date on the bottom hadn’t been filled in yet. Jacqueline wasn’t honoring our deal. She was saving the video of me with the white box to use against me. She planned to turn it over to the police. She must have been the one who’d broken into my condo and hidden the jewels under the dishtowels. She was setting me up so the police would discover the evidence. I flipped to the next form and read as fast as my brain could take it in.
On April 22, Mara Butler (Respondent) forged a check in the amount of $5,000 from Greystone Realty’s accounting department and unlawfully withdrew funds from Greystone’s escrow account for her personal use. I became aware of Respondent’s fraudulent activity on January 2nd when Respondent bragged to another realtor about stealing the money from Greystone’s escrow account. Greystone has since canceled Respondent’s Independent Contractor Agreement, but I feel an obligation to report this fraud to the Board of Realtors. A copy of the forged check is attached to this Complaint.
Signed: _______________________ [Complainant]
Maeve Wilkerson, Office Manager
Greystone Realty
My heart pounded in my chest, black spots appearing before my eyes. I hadn’t forged any checks. Jacqueline had given me a draw and asked me to fill out the check. I’d paid her back! Suddenly, something Kevin had told me about Peter months earlier echoed in my head—There was a rumor he stole money from Greystone’s escrow account. My hand flew to my mouth, silencing my scream. Jacqueline had done the same thing to him.
My eyes scanned back over the dates on the forms, January 2nd. That didn’t make any sense. January 2nd was over a month from now. Why was Maeve’s complaint unsigned? Why was Jacqueline waiting? Then, just as quickly as my blood had boiled, it reversed course and turned ice cold. I’d spent enough time with Jacqueline to know how her mind worked. Winning Top Producer was her number one goal. She was waiting to bring home the award before taking her lies to Maeve. Before framing me for robbery and forgery. Before destroying me.
More of Kevin’s words replayed in my head: She hasn’t slit your throat and left you by the side of the road yet, so that’s good…She’d kill her own mother to get both sides of a commission. I squeezed my fists so tight, my knuckles cracked. Kevin had seen Jacqueline for what she was. He’d tried to warn me. So had Peter. They’d both ended up dead. I’d been so focused on becoming successful, on paying Emma’s medical bills, on protecting my relationship with Damon that I’d somehow justified Jacqueline’s actions. I’d been so naïve. Why had I trusted her? Why hadn’t I quit before things spiraled out of control?
A second complaint with the Board of Realtors lay behind the first one. An address jumped off the page at me. 1907 N. Mohawk. Another wave of nausea overtook me. She wasn’t going to forget about the stolen lead after all. I should have known.
On or about May 25th, Mara Butler [Respondent] unlawfully stole information from my website related to a property located at 1907 N. Mohawk, Chicago, IL. The stolen information resulted in Respondent listing and selling said property. Because I procured the lead through my website, I am legally entitled to the Respondent’s commission.
Signed: Jacqueline Hendersen [Complainant]
Again, she had dated the complaint in January—over a month from now. My hands shook uncontrollably. Still, I forced myself to look at the final form that lay beneath the others. Another sticky note stuck to the front of the page. In Jacqueline’s handwriting, it read, Call Natalia re: stalking.
I narrowed my eyes at the words, the horrible realization spreading through me with every passing second. My breathing stopped as if Jacqueline’s hands, themselves, were strangling me. She was going to tell Natalia I’d been stalking her. I turned on my heel, desperate for somewhere to run, but there was nowhere to escape from Jacqueline’s traps. Natalia had seen me! I could almost hear Jacqueline’s false statements: that her troubled assistant had become obsessed with the Russian realtor, the city’s Top Producer, that she’d caught me stealing leads, not only from Natalia but also from her own website, that she didn’t know what I was capable of. What if Natalia believed Jacqueline’s version of events? Natalia could have me killed by the Russian mafia. There was no way to defend myself. I had been following her.
I crumpled the sticky note, feeling sick. The papers shook in my hands, and my forehead erupted in a chill of sweat. Jacqueline was framing me for every crime imaginable with flat-out lies. Except for keeping the Mohawk listing to myself, I hadn’t done anything wrong. I’d done nothing but help her. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. I wanted to scream, but no sound would come out. Hot bile rose in my throat, and I gulped it back down. I kept reading.
I am coming forward now because I am tired of living in fear. Respondent has shown up on my doorstep and threatened me with bodily harm unless I bring her in as a fifty percent partner in my Arlington on the Park development listing. I request a protective order against her.
She was ruthless, but this sunk to a new low. These complaints would ruin my career. I wouldn’t be able to pay for Emma’s treatment if I lost my license. My parents would have to sell their house. Jacqueline’s false claims could destroy my life. What if Damon believed this bullshit?
I could come clean and tell the police about Jacqueline staging Peter’s death to look like a suicide and about how she murdered Kevin, but she’d find a way to twist it, to say I was trying to get back at her. Maybe she’d even frame me for Kevin’s death, or Peter’s. I’d been inside Kevin’s building that day, too. I benefitted from his death when I’d taken his place on the Arlington on the Park development. And after Peter had threatened me with a knife, I’d also had a strong motive for wanting him gone. People viewed Jacqueline as a pillar of the community, the winner of the Chicago Board of Realtors’ Good Neighbor Award. They would believe her version of events over mine.
Two loud honks from outside jolted me upright, the papers dropping. I pulled them off the floor and shoved them into my bag, grabbing the manila file on the way out. Jacqueline didn’t expect me back from Michigan so soon, or she would never have left that folder on her desk. She wouldn’t know it was me who took it. Judging by the dates on the complaints, I still had over a month before she planned to file them.
Before I could lock the door behind me, a uniformed woman from Windy City Cleaning Service stepped toward the door, plastic bags and bottles of 409 and Windex in hand. She nodded toward the sales center.
“You’re on the schedule for cleaning this morning.”
“Okay.” With my heart still racing, I stepped away from the door and let her through, hoping Jacqueline would believe an overzealous cleaning lady accidentally threw away her complaints. A truck idled in the street and honked again, blocking my car. I gave a quick wave, and the driver gave me the finger back. I leaped inside and sped toward Greystone as fast as I could go.
I breathed out and relaxed my grip on the steering wheel, not finding Jacqueline’s car parked in any of the spaces around Greystone. Still, it was too risky to stay at the office. Justin and I would need to write up the offer somewhere else.
My client stood next to the front door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. I pulled to the curb and stepped from my car to shake his hand.
“Hi. Do you mind if we write this up at the
Pancake House? I’ve been driving all morning, and I’m starving.”
“That’s fine.”
We climbed back into our cars and drove the four blocks to the restaurant. Jacqueline hadn’t seen me. I breathed out the air I’d been holding in my lungs, feeling as if I’d narrowly escaped my execution. A few minutes later, I sat across from Justin, squinting under the bright pendant lights that hung over our table, ordering coffee and pancakes from the overly friendly waitress. The food was just for show. My stomach turned with fear, not hunger as the damning accusations reeled through my head.
Justin insisted on submitting a full-price offer. I didn’t argue, even though he was overpaying. We leafed through the comps and discussed the contract and disclosures, but I wasn’t present for any of it. I watched myself fill out the contract and show him where to initial and sign, like a ghost floating above myself, only half-aware of the things that were happening around me. This feeling of separating from myself was familiar. I’d felt the same way after finding the cans of spray paint in the trunk of Jacqueline’s car the night of the charity dinner. I’d justified her actions then, had even thought of her as a creative genius. I’d ignored my instincts to run in the other direction. I’d convinced myself that she was right and I was wrong, that she knew better. If only I had listened to my gut. I should have done the right thing. I should have left her early on and avoided this whole mess. But I hadn’t.
An overwhelming feeling that things were going to get worse tore through me, like a dog who knew the earthquake was coming an hour before it arrived. I swiveled my legs to the other side of my chair but couldn’t escape the darkness surrounding me. Every couple of minutes, I glanced over my shoulder half-expecting to see Jacqueline staring down at me, a grotesque smile on her face because she knew she was in control.
