I heard Brad practically tumbling down the stairs to greet her. His voice was filled with the kind of guilty enthusiasm of a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar who’s trying to convince everyone he was just checking if the cookies were fresh. «Madison, I told you to wait until tomorrow! Harper’s still… she’s still here!»
«Oh, don’t worry about that,» came Madison’s confident reply.
«After tomorrow, this will all be behind us. We can start fresh in our beautiful new home.»
«Our beautiful new home.» The audacity was almost admirable. Almost. I closed my laptop, straightened my blazer, and checked my appearance in the mirror.
Time to go downstairs and introduce Madison to the concept of consequences. But first, one final text to my new favorite group chat: «Showtime, ladies. Hope you’re recording this.»
I descended those stairs like I was walking into a courtroom where I already knew the verdict. Madison and Brad were in the kitchen, her arms wrapped around his waist while she gazed adoringly at our granite countertops, likely redecorating in her mind. The takeout containers were spread across the island, and she’d even lit some candles—probably the expensive ones I’d bought from that boutique in Greenwich.
«Well, well,» I announced, my voice cutting through their romantic bubble like a knife through warm butter. «Madison Rivers, or should I say… Melissa Rodriguez?»
The effect was instantaneous and absolutely delicious. Madison’s face went through more color changes than a traffic light having a nervous breakdown, while Brad looked like someone had just told him his 401k had been invested in Monopoly money.
«Harper, what are you talking about?» Brad stammered. But Madison had gone completely rigid, her hands dropping from his waist like she’d just realized she was hugging a rattlesnake.
«Oh, I think Madison knows exactly what I’m talking about,» I said, pulling out my phone and setting it on the counter. «In fact, I bet she’s checking her messages right about now, wondering why David Peterson’s wife, Michael Harrison’s wife, and Jennifer Mitchell’s wife have all been trying to reach her in the past hour.»
Madison’s phone, which had been buzzing incessantly from her purse, suddenly seemed to weigh 1,000 pounds. She stared at it like it might explode, which, considering the circumstances, wasn’t far from the truth.
«I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Harper,» she said, but her voice had lost that breathy, mystical quality faster than air from a punctured balloon. «Brad told me you might try to cause trouble.»
«Trouble?» I laughed, the sound echoing through our kitchen like a gunshot. «Honey, I haven’t even started causing trouble yet. That was just the opening act.»
My phone rang at exactly 10:05 p.m. I answered it on speaker because if you’re going to destroy someone’s life, you might as well do it with theatrical flair.
«Harper, it’s Patricia Peterson. I’m here with Victoria and Jennifer. We’ve just finished filing reports with the Fraud Division, the IRS, and the State Attorney General’s Office. We thought Madison might want to know.»
Madison’s face had progressed from pale to green, landing somewhere around the color of old guacamole. Brad was looking between us like a spectator at the world’s most confusing tennis match.
«What fraud division?» he asked, his voice cracking like a 13-year-old boy hitting puberty.
«Well, Brad,» Victoria Harrison’s voice came through the speaker with the kind of professional cheerfulness she probably used to deliver bad news to clients. «Your girlfriend has been running quite the operation. Four married men, four different stories, four different revenue streams. Very entrepreneurial, really.»
«Four men?» Brad repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jennifer Mitchell’s voice joined in, crisp and matter-of-fact. «David thought he was helping her escape an abusive relationship. Michael believed he was covering her student loans. You thought you were supporting her through financial hardship. My husband, James, was convinced he was funding her ‘spiritual retreat’ to heal from family trauma. She’s been collecting rent money, car payments, studio fees, and vacation funds from all of you simultaneously.»
The sound Brad made was somewhere between a wounded animal and a broken garbage disposal. Madison, meanwhile, had grabbed her purse and was edging toward the door like a shoplifter who’d just spotted security.
«Madison,» I called sweetly, stopping her mid-escape. «Before you go, there’s one more thing you should know. This house, the one you’ve been planning to move into? It’s owned by Caldwell Property Holdings, LLC. MyLLC, bought with my inheritance, in my name, with my money. Brad’s name isn’t on the deed, the mortgage, or any of the legal documents.»
She turned around slowly, her face now resembling a wax figure that had been left too close to a heater. «What does that mean?» she whispered.
«It means,» I said, savoring every word like fine wine, «that even if Brad divorces me, he has no legal claim to this property. You’ve been planning to move into a house that he can’t give you because he doesn’t own it. You’ve been seducing a man for his assets when his primary asset legally belongs to his wife.»
The silence that followed was so complete I could hear the refrigerator humming and the grandfather clock in the hallway ticking away the seconds until Madison’s world completely imploded. Brad finally found his voice. «Four men? You’ve been seeing four men?»
Madison’s carefully constructed mystical persona crumbled faster than a sandcastle in a hurricane. «Brad, I can explain…»
«Explain?» he exploded, his face turning red enough to stop traffic. «Explain how you’ve been playing me for months? Explain how everything you told me was a lie?»
«Actually,» Patricia’s voice cut through the chaos from my phone, «she won’t be explaining anything to anyone except federal investigators. We’ve traced financial transactions across state lines, documented identity fraud, and found evidence of tax evasion that would make Al Capone impressed. Madison, or Melissa, or whatever your real name is, you’re about to become very familiar with the inside of a courtroom.»
Madison made one last desperate play. «Brad, honey, none of this matters. We have something special.»
«Special?» Victoria’s voice dripped with sarcasm. «You mean like the ‘special relationship’ you had with my husband every Tuesday and Thursday for six months?»
That’s when Madison finally cracked completely. The tears started flowing, the mystical facade disappeared entirely, and she began babbling about how she never meant for it to go this far, how she just needed money for her «sick mother,» and how she was going to tell everyone the truth eventually. But I was done listening; I’d heard enough lies from Madison to last several lifetimes.
«Ladies,» I said into the phone, «I think our work here is finished. Madison, the door is behind you. I suggest you use it before I decide to press additional charges for trespassing.»
