Chapter 8: What Marcus Knew
I called Diane that evening.
I had been putting it off because I didn't know how to explain the photograph, and I didn't want her to feel that her husband had been pulled into something ugly through no fault of his own.
She answered before I finished the first sentence.
"I already know," she said.
"Tom told me this afternoon.
He got a call from Patricia's office asking him to provide a written statement about your meetings." A pause.
"Are you all right?"
"I think so," I said.
"I'm sorry he got dragged into this."
"Don't you dare apologize," Diane said.
"Carl sat at my dining table.
He ate my food.
He toasted my birthday." Her voice was steady but tight.
"Tom is furious.
He's already sent the statement.
He kept every text you two exchanged about the party.
Dates, times, everything."
"Thank you," I said.
"Both of you."
"Where are you staying?"
"Ryan's.
For now."
"You'll come to us on the weekend.
I won't hear otherwise."
After I hung up, I sat for a while in the quiet of Ryan's spare room.
The bed was narrow and the pillow smelled like laundry detergent and it was the most peaceful I had felt in days.
My phone rang.
Marcus.
I almost didn't answer.
But something made me pick up.
"I owe you an explanation," he said, without preamble.
"Not an apology — though that too.
An explanation."
"All right," I said.
"Carl came to me in January.
He told me he was unhappy.
That the marriage had been over for years.
That he wanted out and he wanted it to be clean." Marcus paused.
"He said you both agreed the house should be sold and the proceeds split.
He said you'd already discussed it."
"I never agreed to any of that."
"I know that now.
I didn't know it then." His voice was heavy.
"He asked me to help him find a discreet buyer for the house.
Someone off-market.
I put him in touch with a contact of mine.
I thought I was helping a friend through an amicable divorce."
I said nothing.
"When I found out what he'd actually done — the deed transfer, the forged consent — I went back to my contact and pulled the introduction.
Then I called the number David had given me." He paused again.
"I recorded the call with Carl six weeks ago.
He didn't know.
He was still confident then.
He said everything plainly."
"Why didn't you come to me directly?" I asked.
"Because I wasn't sure you'd believe me without proof," Marcus said.
"Carl is very convincing.
He's been convincing me for thirty years." A long pause.
"I'm sorry I was part of this, even without knowing it.
I'm sorry it took me this long to see what he was."
I thought about Marcus at our wedding.
Holding our daughter the day she was born.
Sitting across from Carl at a table, being lied to just like the rest of us.
"You fixed it when you could," I said.
"That matters."
He was quiet for a moment.
"How are the kids taking it?" he asked.
"Ryan is angry and trying to be strong.
Emma doesn't know yet.
I'm driving up to tell her this weekend."
"She's going to need you," he said.
"And you're going to need to be all right before you get there."
"I know."
"Are you?"
I looked around the small spare room.
The narrow bed.
The borrowed pillow.
"Getting there," I said.
After I hung up, Ryan knocked on the door and leaned in.
"Hungry?" he said.
"I made pasta.
It's not great, but it's hot."
I got up and followed him to the kitchen.
He had set two places at the table.
There was a candle, slightly crooked in its holder.
He'd clearly found it in a drawer and wasn't sure it was appropriate but put it there anyway.
I sat down.
He served the pasta.
It was slightly overcooked and the sauce was from a jar.
It was the best meal I'd had in months.
"Mom," Ryan said, twirling his fork.
"What happens if the court doesn't rule in your favor?
What if he finds some other angle?"
"Then we find the next thing," I said.
"Patricia is good.
The evidence is solid.
And your father made the mistake of telling people."
Ryan nodded slowly.
"Marcus really recorded him?"
"Yes."
"And Dad didn't suspect?"
"No." I picked up my fork.
"He thought everyone around him was as comfortable with dishonesty as he was.
That was his real mistake."
Ryan was quiet for a moment.
"I keep thinking about all the times I defended him," he said.
"To my friends.
To Emma.
To myself." He looked at his plate.
"I feel stupid."
"Don't," I said.
"He practiced this.
He practiced on me for twenty-three years."
Ryan looked up.
"You're not angry," he said.
It wasn't quite a question.
"I'm past angry," I said.
"Angry was Saturday night.
Now I just want it done."
He nodded.
Then, quietly: "I'm glad you came."
"Me too," I said.
Outside, it had started to rain.
The window above the sink was fogged at the edges.
May you like
The pasta was going cold.
Neither of us moved to clear the plates.
