Chapter 8: Facing Abbie

When I got back to the motel, it took a while to locate my old address book. I knew I had brought it with me. The idea that I would need to use it had never occurred to me, so it was buried at the bottom of the pack where I kept clothes I didn’t wear often and gear that wasn’t necessary but nice to have. I had a mini celebration when I finally pulled it out of the pack—for a while, I thought I might have lost it.

I quickly started scanning the listings, and then it dawned on me—I didn’t remember his last name. His first name was Douglas, and he went by Doug. It was the last name that threw me, so I had to start from the first page, looking for a last name followed by a first name: Douglas. I kept at it until I found it in the S’s. Finally, I thought to myself. There it was: Shepherd, Douglas—Attorney at Law, along with both his business and home phone numbers.

I anxiously picked up the phone and dialed his home number—it was getting close to 8 p.m. The phone rang several times, and just as I was about to hang up, a woman answered. I hesitated for a moment, willing myself to speak.

“Is Mr. Shepherd at home, please?” I asked, my voice tighter than I expected. “I need to speak with him if possible—it’s about a legal matter. It’s ... urgent.”

I heard the woman sigh, the kind of sigh that carried a hint of frustration—like I’d interrupted something, maybe a family dinner. I probably had.

“Just a moment,” she said, and then set the phone down. I could only hope she’d gone to get Douglas.

After what might have been a minute—but felt like hours to me—I heard someone pick up the phone.

“This is Douglas Shepherd. How may I help you?” he asked, his voice calm and professional, all business.

I took a deep breath, paused, and let it out slowly before I finally answered.

“Doug, you used to be a client of mine, and I find myself in need of legal representation. I might be in trouble up to my eyeballs, and I need help. Are you interested in taking my case?” I said, keeping my voice as calm as I could manage.

His response came quickly: “First of all, who is this, and what sort of trouble do you think you’re in?”

“Doug, this is Mark Halpin. I’m alive, and this is not a prank,” I said, my voice tighter, a knot forming in my stomach. “I need legal advice, and you were the first lawyer I thought of—hell, you’re the only one I thought of. Please, can you help me?” I pleaded, praying he wouldn’t hang up on me.

“Mark, don’t say anything else over the phone. Meet me at 7 a.m. at my office. You know where it is?” His voice was firm, the tone leaving no room for argument.

When I confirmed that I did, he continued, “Be prepared to tell me everything—and I mean everything. If you can’t or won’t, don’t show up. I’m not wasting my time on a liar. So you’d better be ready to tell the truth. This isn’t going to be easy, and it won’t come cheap. Just so you know, ahead of time.”

“I’ll be there, Doug. I’m tired, and I just want this to be over so I can move on with my life.” I paused, gathering the courage for what came next. “Also, once we get my legal problems taken care of, I’d like you to represent me in divorcing Abbie.”

Doug answered, “One thing at a time, buddy, one thing at a time. Okay, I’ll be in the office at 7 a.m., and I want to hear the whole story. This is going to be the biggest case I’ve ever handled in my legal career, so don’t worry. I’ll do my best to represent you.”

“I’ll see you at 7 a.m., and I’ll tell you the whole story then,” I responded.

We hung up, and for a moment, it felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. Suddenly, I had this intense urge to urinate and hurried to the motel room’s bathroom. It’s crazy how the human body reacts to stress like that.

After taking care of business, I tried watching TV, but I couldn’t focus on anything. I kept changing the channels, unable to follow whatever I was watching. Frustrated, I eventually gave up and turned the TV off.

I did something I hadn’t done in ages—I prayed. I prayed for forgiveness, for guidance, and above all, for courage. I knew things were about to get very stressful from here on out.

At 7 a.m., I walked into Douglas’s office as promised. He was the only one there, and when he heard me come through the door, he stepped out of his office. For a moment, I don’t think he recognized me. He just stood there, taking in the sight of what was standing in front of him. What he saw was a just-over-six-foot biker, with long hair and a scraggly beard, wearing boots, well-worn but clean jeans, a black t-shirt, and a leather riding jacket.

“Jesus, you look like a rough renegade biker, not the financial planner I know,” Doug said, his voice laced with disbelief. “I think I would’ve walked right by you in a crowd and not recognized you. If you wanted to travel undetected, you definitely accomplished that.”

“Hello, Douglas. I’m glad you at least agreed to see me,” was all I could manage to say. My mouth and throat felt as dry as the deserts I had recently ridden through. I was hoping he’d offer some water or something to drink.

He had me follow him back to his conference room, and for the next three and a half hours, I poured out everything—the moment I discovered Abbie’s affair with Bobby Bill. My voice faltered as I recalled the first sign: a nearly new nightie, one that Abbie would have never worn for me. It seemed so out of place, especially for a church retreat. Then there was the half-empty box of condoms, the physical evidence I couldn’t ignore. But the real gut punch—the kicker—was the room charged to Mr. and Mrs. Mark Halpin on our house account. Abbie’s credit card. The one she always managed. I had trusted her completely, never once thinking to check, never once questioning her.

Other signs that something was off included her making phone calls on our landline, speaking in low tones, giggling and always turning her back to me when I walked into the room. Then there were the long phone calls that lasted for hours. I remember mentioning to Doug how one night I found an unknown number on the caller ID—she’d been on the phone for almost two hours while I went to bed at our usual time.

I also mentioned how distant she’d been toward me ever since that weekend church retreat. There was a noticeable coldness between us. And then there was her spending more and more time at the church—hours on end, sometimes. It felt like she was pulling away from me, and I couldn’t figure out why.

I commented that, on their own, the phone calls and her spending more time at the church didn’t necessarily point to anything suspicious. But when I put them together with the undeniable evidence from the weekend retreat, it became clear—Abbie was straying.

I then told the lie I had prepared—about overhearing Abbie and her mother talking on the phone, planning my demise. I said that Abbie had told her mother that if she went for a divorce, the most she would get would be half of everything. But if I died, she’d inherit the entire estate. Then, I claimed I heard Abbie mention that she and Bobby Bill had discussed hiring a hitman to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Finally, I told him how Abbie had said to her mother that if they staged it at the office, she too would be free from Miles and could live life the way she wanted, without being controlled by his grip on the finances.

I’m not sure if Douglas believed me at first, but I stuck to my story. It seemed to fit with what was being reported in the news, with what the authorities were starting to believe. My heart raced, but I kept going, knowing this was the only way to make sense of everything.

I practically begged Douglas to understand as I explained, my words tumbling out in a rush. “The reason I left ... the reason I disappeared like I did—was to escape the murder plots they had against me. Abbie, Bobby Bill, and her mother ... they were going to kill me. If they couldn’t find me, they couldn’t have me killed and collect on my estate. That’s why I had to leave when I did, before it was too late.” My chest tightened with the weight of what I was saying, but I had to make him believe it—had to make him see how desperate I was.

Douglas nodded, his expression serious. “I’ll contact the authorities and let them know you’re alive, and I’ll explain the initial reason behind your disappearance. For now, you need to lay low. Go back to where you’re staying, keep your head down for a day. Then, call my office, and we’ll figure out the next steps.” His voice was firm, as if laying out a plan to regain control, but I could feel the tension between us, the weight of everything hanging in the air.

When I asked how he wanted to be paid, Douglas gave me a reassuring look. “I know you’re good for it. When the time comes, you’ll pay.” His tone was steady, but there was an unspoken understanding that we both knew things weren’t going to be simple from here on out.

As I was leaving, Douglas stopped me with a serious look. “The main reason I took this case wasn’t just because we’re friends. Every lawyer wants that one case—the one that defines their career. Mark, your case is mine. This is the most sensational thing I’ve ever handled, and I promise you, I’ll give it everything I’ve got.” His voice was firm, but there was a hint of something deeper—an unspoken commitment. “Now, get out of here and lie low. We’ve got a lot ahead of us.”

I followed his advice and stayed in the motel room, keeping a low profile like he suggested. Using the motel’s Wi-Fi, I logged onto my laptop and checked the online investment accounts I’d set up while on the road. I made a few changes, hoping they’d improve my returns. It wasn’t much, but it helped pass the time, gave me something to focus on, even if just for a little while.

When it came time to eat, there were several restaurants within walking distance of the motel. I slipped on my ball cap, sunglasses, and a simple t-shirt, knowing my choice of clothing was the perfect disguise. The clothes, the scruffy beard, and my longish hair went a long way in hiding who I really was. To anyone who saw me at the restaurant, I didn’t look like a former successful financial advisor. I looked like someone who worked with his hands—tough, weathered, and shaped by the road. The tan from hours on the bike only added to the illusion.

I waited and called Doug’s office when he told me to. Our phone conversation was short and to the point—almost too short. We had an appointment with the District Attorney’s office the next day, and I could feel the tension creeping in. According to Doug, the DA was eager to speak with me, to hear what I knew. That didn’t exactly ease my nerves. I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t out of the woods yet—not after faking my own death. The law doesn’t exactly look kindly on that sort of thing, and I had no idea how this was going to play out.

I met Doug at his office the next morning, right on time. We were scheduled to ride together to the District Attorney’s office, and on the way, he wanted to prepare me for what I was about to face. The first thing he told me was not to volunteer any more information than what I was directly asked. Most questions, he said, could be answered with a simple yes or no.

He explained that what tripped most people up was the way interviewers operated: they’d start off friendly, asking easy, non-threatening questions—the kind anyone could answer without thinking. But as the interview progressed and the interviewer built a rapport with the subject, that’s when things would shift. Once a sense of trust had been established, they’d start getting accusatory, digging for contradictions or signs of guilt. That’s when lies or discrepancies tended to slip out.

Doug reminded me that he’d be in the room the whole time, and if a question was incriminating, he’d step in and advise me not to answer. He also said that if I was unsure about anything, I could stop the interview and ask him how to respond. The whole thing sounded like a legal cat-and-mouse game—and I was the mouse.

The interview at the District Attorney’s office started off just like Douglas said it would—but that didn’t stop my hands from sweating. Most of their questions were basic yes-or-no stuff, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that every answer was being weighed, measured. Then they started getting more specific. Still, none of it felt aggressive. Just calm, methodical questions about events I’d rather not think too hard about. I did my best to answer honestly, though I kept second-guessing myself. They never brought up my disappearance, which surprised me. Instead, they focused on when certain things happened—pressing for details I could barely remember. I kept waiting for the trap to spring, for someone to pull out a rubber hose or raise their voice. But it never happened. I realized pretty quickly—I wasn’t who they were after. Their sights were set on Abbie and Bobby Bill, and what they’d done with the church money. Whatever happened to me? That was just background noise.

One of the interviewers said that while what I did was stupid, he could understand why I took off. He mentioned that sometimes he wanted to disappear too—especially when dealing with his wife. Then he asked why I never popped Bobby Bill in the nose for messing around with Abbie. I told him Bobby Bill wasn’t worth going to jail for. He chuckled at that. But after the laugh, things turned serious.

They started asking me about when I first learned there might be a plan to have a hitman come after me and Miles at the office. I gave them an approximate date and admitted that at the time, I didn’t really believe what I’d heard. It just didn’t seem possible—Abbie being that cold-hearted.

I did say I thought it was probably her mother’s idea. She never liked me much, and I always got the sense she resented me for getting in the way of her plan to pair Abbie up with Bobby Bill.

And with that, the interview was over. Douglas and I went back to his office, and on the way home, he commented that I wasn’t out of the woods yet—but it didn’t sound like they were looking to pursue charges against me.

When we got back to Douglas’s office, we had an after-interview interview. Douglas said he thought the meeting went well and I probably didn’t have anything to worry about. If I was charged with anything, he said he could probably plead it down to a misdemeanor of inducing panic or something that sounded like that.

Back at Douglas’s office, I asked him to look into a few things for me—things I never imagined I’d be saying out loud.

First, I wanted to know who was in charge of maintaining my house now, and what it would take to have it transferred back to me—along with any liens or debts tied to the property. It used to be home. Now it was just another thing that needed sorting out.

Then I asked about the bank accounts—any that were in my name alone, or the ones I’d once shared with Abbie. I wanted them unfrozen, and if possible, returned to my sole control.

After that, I told him I wanted to start divorce proceedings. Adultery was the reason, and I wanted Bobby Bill named as the co-defendant—or whatever the legal term was. The words tasted bitter coming out.

And lastly, I said I wanted to see Abbie and Bobby Bill together. I didn’t even know exactly why. Maybe for closure. Or maybe just to finally, fully let go of Abbie—both physically and emotionally. To look her in the eyes one last time and feel whatever was left ... and then walk away from it for good.

None of it felt good. But it all had to be done.

I explained that seeing the two of them together wasn’t about revenge or confrontation. It was about healing. My way of finally letting go of the anger and hatred I’d been carrying around—for both of them. That was the only way I could move on.

Doug said he’d see what he could do, though he wasn’t promising anything. I could tell by the look in his eyes he understood the weight of it, but he wasn’t sure how much could actually be arranged.

The transfer of the house back to my possession wasn’t difficult. The county had been covering the upkeep, and as soon as they were reimbursed, the property would be returned to me. The same went for the bank accounts. I had to keep track of any joint accounts, but I was only entitled to half of the balance in each.

The same day Abbie found out I was alive, she was served with divorce papers. I had wanted to file on the grounds of adultery, but in the end, I settled for a straightforward divorce. Douglas explained that unless I was willing to drag things out, we could take the quicker route. Pursuing adultery would cost more, and the outcome would be the same, so I agreed.

As part of the settlement, I gave up my interest in the house in exchange for full access to the money in our joint accounts and savings. The house was worth a lot—given its size and the neighborhood where we had it built. It was the last thing that still held any real value, but I was willing to let it go. The money, though, was something I could actually use—to start over, to rebuild.

Douglas worked wonders, and within a week, the house was back in my name—along with my personal bank accounts. As for the company assets—my share of what Miles had been forced to sell—I signed them over to him. Not because he asked, but because it felt like the only thing I could do. None of it was his fault. And it wasn’t mine either. It was the chaos his wife and daughter brought into the business that finally tore it apart.