Chapter 5: What Marcus Should Have Said Sooner
The afternoon traffic moved slowly past the parking lot.
I stood beside my car and waited.
"Marcus.
Talk to me."
"After you moved the assets last year," he said, "Anthony came to see me."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"When?"
"Eight months ago.
He called the office and said he wanted to discuss a personal matter.
I thought it was about you — about the marriage.
I agreed to meet him for coffee." A pause.
"He asked me about the Dalton account."
"He asked you specifically about Dalton."
"Yes.
He said he'd overheard a conversation and wanted to understand what it meant.
I told him the projections were scenario-based and fully disclosed.
I thought that was the end of it."
"But it wasn't."
"He asked me one more question before he left." Marcus's voice was careful now.
"He asked whether the client had ever complained.
I told him no.
He thanked me and left."
I stared at the pavement.
"He was building a file," I said.
"Eight months ago, he was already building a file."
"I should have called you that same day.
I'm sorry."
"Did he record the conversation?"
"I don't know.
I didn't think to check.
It was a coffee shop."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
"Get me the Dalton documents.
Everything.
Tonight if you can."
"They'll be in your inbox by nine."
I drove home with both hands on the wheel and my mind moving faster than the car.
Anthony hadn't acted on impulse when he threatened me.
He had been preparing.
While I was quietly moving assets, quietly building my exit, he had been doing something of his own.
The question was how much he had actually gathered — and whether Phillip Crane believed it was enough to use.
Grace called at seven.
"Crane made contact," she said.
"He's proposing a settlement.
Anthony wants the Westfield property, the joint savings account balance as of the date of separation, and a monthly payment for three years."
"Based on what legal theory?"
"Contribution to the marital lifestyle and alleged harm to his earning capacity." Her voice was dry.
"He claims that relying on your income prevented him from developing his own career."
I almost laughed.
"His own career.
He had four failed businesses in six years.
I funded all of them."
"I know.
I have the bank records." A pause.
"He's also threatening to take the Dalton allegation to the state business licensing board if you don't agree to terms within ten days."
There it was.
Not a lawsuit.
A complaint to a regulatory body.
Something that could trigger an investigation, generate publicity, and damage my reputation even if it went nowhere.
"He doesn't have anything real," I said.
"No.
But a complaint costs him nothing to file and costs you months of legal response." Grace let that sit for a moment.
"This is the play, Olivia.
He can't win in court.
So he's trying to make the process painful enough that settling feels cheaper."
"What do you recommend?"
"I recommend we call his bluff.
But I need the Dalton documents first, and I need to know there is absolutely nothing in them that could be misread under pressure."
"Marcus is sending everything tonight."
"Good.
I also want to depose Marcus.
Formally.
I want his account on record before Crane can get to him again."
"You think Crane will approach Marcus?"
"I think Crane will approach anyone who might be useful." A pause.
"There's one more thing.
Dana Reeves.
She's been staying at the Meridian Hotel downtown for the past four nights.
Anthony checked in with her the evening he left your house."
I said nothing.
"He went straight from your door to her," Grace said quietly.
I looked at the kitchen counter where the folder had been sitting that morning.
"It doesn't change anything legally," Grace said.
"But I thought you should know."
"Thank you."
After I hung up, I sat at the kitchen table for a long time without moving.
It wasn't the affair that sat heavily.
I had known about Dana for fourteen months.
I had processed that grief slowly, in private, in the months when I was quietly dismantling everything he thought he owned.
What sat heavily was something simpler.
He had gone to Marcus eight months ago.
He had been watching, collecting, preparing — while still sleeping in our house, still eating meals I cooked, still wearing the watch I had bought him for his birthday.
He had looked at me across the dinner table and smiled.
My phone lit up on the table.
An unknown number.
I let it ring.
It rang again twenty minutes later.
Same number.
The third time, I answered.
"Ms.
Hartwell." A woman's voice.
Not Dana.
Someone older, careful.
"My name is Carol Simmons.
I'm a paralegal in Phillip Crane's office." A pause.
"I'm not calling on behalf of Mr.
May you like
Crane.
I'm calling because there's something you need to know about your husband's file."
