I Took My Husband’s Phone In For Repair. The Technician, A Family Friend, Pulled Me Aside And Said,

The next morning, I drove to the Portland Public Library where I’d worked for 37 years. I knew every corner of that building. Every resource.

Every research database. More importantly, I knew the people. “Stella.” Marian Andrews, the head reference librarian, looked up from her desk with genuine pleasure.

“What brings you in? Missing us already? Can’t stay away?”

“Can’t stay away,” I said, smiling.

“Marian, I need a favor. I need to research someone, but I need it done quietly.”

Marian’s expression sharpened. She’d worked with me for 20 years.

She knew when something was wrong. “Come into my office.”

I told her a version of the truth. That I suspected Robert was planning something financial.

Possibly selling his practice. Possibly planning to leave. That I needed information on his business partner.

I didn’t mention the scheduled messages. Not yet. That truth was too large, too impossible to speak aloud.

“Laura Hardy,” Marian repeated, typing into her computer. “Let’s see what we can find.”

What we found over the next three hours was damning. Laura Hardy was 42 years old, a business consultant specializing in medical practice acquisitions.

She’d worked on a dozen practice sales in the past five years. She was based in Boston but traveled frequently. She was divorced, no children.

And according to her LinkedIn profile, she had recently relocated to Portland, Maine, to oversee a significant new acquisition. “She’s local?” I asked. “Very local.” Marian clicked through to property records.

“She bought a condo downtown six months ago. Pearl Street, overlooking the harbor. Paid cash.”

Paid cash.

A question hovered between us. Where would a consultant get that kind of money? Marian must have seen it on my face.

“Want me to dig deeper?”

“Please.”

By noon, Marian had traced Laura Hardy’s financial history through public records and professional registries. The woman was drowning in debt. Her previous business had failed spectacularly two years ago, leaving her with outstanding loans and creditors.

The Portland condo had been purchased through a shell company. And the money—Marian’s eyes widened as she found it. The money had been transferred from an account belonging to Robert’s dental practice.

“Stella,” Marian said carefully, “this woman appears to be pulling money from your husband’s practice. Or he’s funding her.”

“He’s funding her,” I said, my voice flat. Robert had given Laura Hardy a fortune.

He’d promised her that condo in Boca. He was planning to sell his practice for $2 million. Disappear.

And the only thing standing in his way was me. “There’s something else,” Marian said, her voice dropping. She clicked to court records.

“Laura Hardy was investigated in Massachusetts a few years ago. A client accused her of manipulating him into signing over assets. The case was dismissed due to lack of evidence.

But Stella… there’s a pattern.”

A pattern. I was 66 years old. Robert was 68.

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