Chapter 4
The next morning brought me to a place I'd never expected to visit as a soul—my childhood home.
That mysterious force that kept me tethered to Mark's drama had shifted, pulling me toward Mom's traditional Austin ranch house like iron filings to a magnet.
I materialized in Mom's living room just as the grandfather clock chimed 10 AM.
Dorothy Wilson—all seventy years of Texas steel wrapped in black mourning clothes—sat surrounded by the remnants of my life.
Cardboard boxes labeled "Lisa's Office," "Lisa's Clothes," and "Lisa's Papers" created a maze of grief across her hardwood floors.
Sunlight filtered through her lace curtains, casting delicate shadows across my framed photographs lined up on the coffee table like a memorial gallery.
My college graduation. My real estate license ceremony. That photo of Mark and me at the company Christmas party last year, where I'm beaming and he's checking his phone.
Mom held my University of Texas business degree in her weathered hands, her fingers tracing the gold embossed seal like it was made of precious metal.
"My brilliant girl," she whispered to my graduation photo. "I should have stopped you from marrying that man. I knew he wasn't worthy of you, but you were so in love..."
Oh, Mom.
Her voice cracked as she opened my bank statements—those monthly reminders of my financial discipline that I'd kept meticulously organized in color-coded folders. Her eyes widened as she found the transaction records from six months ago.
"Fifteen thousand... thirty thousand... fifty thousand..." She read each withdrawal amount aloud, her voice growing more incredulous. "Jesus Christ, Lisa. You gave him everything."
The final statement showed it all: $150,000 transferred out in three separate chunks over two weeks. My entire life savings.
Gone. All of it. Given to Mark to save his company while I worked myself to death trying to rebuild our client base.
Mom clutched the bank statements to her chest and began to cry—not the gentle tears of normal grief, but the raw, angry sobs of a mother who'd watched her daughter sacrifice everything for a man who never deserved it.
"You beautiful, stupid girl," she wept. "You worked yourself into the grave for him."
That's when the phone rang.
Mom wiped her eyes and reached for the phone on her side table.
"Wilson residence," she answered, her voice still thick with tears.
"Dorothy." Mark's voice came through the speaker with that particular brand of impatience I'd learned to dread. "I need Lisa's diamond brooch. The one your mother gave her. Where is it?"
I watched Mom's face transform from grief to shock.
"Mark?" Her voice was barely a whisper. "Mark, Lisa is—Lisa is—"
"Is what?" Mark cut her off. "Look, I don't have time for whatever drama you two are cooking up. I need that brooch today. It's important."
Important. For Jessica, no doubt. So she could wear my grandmother's jewelry while she slept in my husband's bed and stole my life's work.
"Mark," Mom tried again, her voice shaking. "Lisa is dead."
Silence.
Then Mark's laugh—bitter and dismissive.
He said, "Come on, Dorothy. Lisa's always been dramatic, but this is ridiculous. Let me talk to her."
"She's DEAD!" Mom's voice exploded through the room like a gunshot. "My daughter is DEAD, you heartless bastard!"
"Stop being ridiculous," Mark snapped. "Lisa's probably sitting right there coaching you on what to say. She's pissed about something and wants to punish me, right? Well, I'm not playing games. That brooch doesn't mean anything to her anyway—she never even wore it."
I never wore it because you said it looked "old-fashioned" and "cheap."
Mom stood up so fast her chair toppled backward.
She shouted, "Punishment? You think my daughter's DEATH is punishment? She worked herself into a heart attack trying to save your worthless company!"
"Heart attack?" Mark's voice wavered for the first split second, then hardened again. "Dorothy, this is insane. Lisa's what, thirty-two? People don't just die of heart attacks at thirty-two."
Mom responded, "They do when they work eighteen-hour days! When they skip meals and live on coffee and stress! When they sacrifice their health for ungrateful pieces of shit like you!"
I'd never heard my mother use language like that. Dorothy Wilson, pillar of the Austin Women's Club, former Sunday school teacher, woman who washed my mouth out with soap for saying "damn" when I was twelve.
"You're out of your mind," Mark said, but his voice was starting to crack. "Lisa's fine. She's just—"
Dorothy screamed, "She's in the GROUND, Mark! In the fucking GROUND!"
The silence stretched so long I thought the call had dropped.
Finally, Mark spoke, his voice smaller now: "What... what are you talking about?"
"The money," Mom said, her voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "The hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Where do you think that came from?"
Another silence.
Mark continued, "I don't know what money you're—"
"Don't you dare lie to me!" Mom's voice could have shattered glass. "My daughter sold everything. Her car, her jewelry, her savings, her retirement fund, the commissions from her biggest deals. Everything she had worked ten years to build. For you!"
"That money came from Jessica," Mark said weakly. "She invested in the company."
"Jessica?" Mom's laugh was pure acid. "You mean the twenty-four-year-old assistant who's been spreading her legs for you? That Jessica?"
"EVERY PENNY came from Lisa! She liquidated her entire life to save your worthless company while you were fucking around with that little slut!"
The crash that came through the phone sounded like Mark dropping something heavy. Probably his phone.
When he came back on the line, his voice was barely audible: "Dorothy, you're lying."
"Ask Jessica where she got a hundred and fifty thousand dollars to invest," Mom said with deadly calm.
Another long silence.
"This isn't real," Mark whispered. "Lisa's not... she can't be..."
"Tomorrow. Two o'clock. Cedar Park Cemetery, main entrance." Mom's voice was granite. "You want to see Lisa? You want that brooch? Come see your wife."
Mark replied, "Cemetery? Dorothy, this is insane—"
Mom said, "You think this is a joke? You think I'm lying about my own daughter's death?"
Mark responded, "I think you're both crazy enough to fake it for some kind of revenge!"
Mom's voice went so quiet I had to strain to hear it: "Then come prove me wrong, Mark. Come find Lisa and ask her yourself."
With that, she hung up.
For several minutes, Mom stood there holding the receiver, her hand shaking with rage. Then she looked directly at my graduation photo.
"Don't worry, baby girl," she whispered. "Mama's going to make sure everyone knows what you sacrificed. That bastard is going to face the truth if I have to drag him there myself."
I love you, Mom.
If I could have hugged her, I would have. Instead, I felt that familiar tug pulling me back toward Mark, back toward the man who was about to have his entire world collapse around him.