Chapter 7: Garrett Makes His Move
Four days later, Marcus called me at seven in the morning.
"Garrett flew in last night," he said.
"He's here."
I set down my coffee.
"Where?"
"He showed up at my apartment.
He wants to meet.
Today." A pause.
"He knows about Renata.
He knows about the misconduct filing."
"How?"
"He has someone watching the bar association records.
He's had it set up for years, apparently.
Any movement on anything connected to that case, he gets an alert." Marcus's voice was steady but I could hear the tension underneath it.
"He said he wants to talk before this goes any further.
He said—" He stopped.
"What did he say, Marcus?"
"He said if I cooperate with you and Renata, he'll tell the family I stole from our stepfather's business.
He has paperwork.
He says it's fabricated, but he says it looks real enough." A short silence.
"He said he's done it before to people who got in his way."
My hand tightened around the phone.
"He's threatening you."
"Yes."
"Are you afraid of him?"
A longer pause this time.
"I've been afraid of him my whole life," Marcus said.
"That's how he's always worked.
He finds the thing you're most scared of losing and he holds it over you." His voice steadied.
"But I'm fifty years old.
I'm mopping floors and counting coins.
There isn't much left for him to take."
"There's the job offer," I said quietly.
"I know."
"Marcus—"
"I'm not backing down," he said.
"I just wanted you to know what we're dealing with."
I was already reaching for my coat.
"Tell him you'll meet him.
Noon.
The cafe."
"You want to be there?"
"I want Renata to be there."
A brief silence.
"He won't like that."
"No," I said.
"He won't."
Garrett walked in at three minutes past noon.
He was taller than his photograph.
Well-dressed in the careful way of a man who has spent money on looking like money.
Silver at his temples, a tan that didn't come from this city, and the kind of easy smile that arrives before the eyes do.
He saw Marcus first.
Then he saw me.
Then he saw Renata, and the smile stayed exactly where it was, which told me everything I needed to know about him.
"Marcus," he said, sliding into the chair across from his brother.
"You didn't mention a party."
"Garrett," Marcus said.
"This is Diane Calloway.
And this is Renata Osei."
Something moved behind Garrett's eyes.
Gone in a second.
"I know who they are," he said pleasantly.
He looked at me.
"You've built quite a foundation, Ms.
Calloway.
I've read about your work." He looked at Renata.
"And you're Patricia's daughter.
I was sorry to hear about your mother."
"Were you," Renata said.
It wasn't a question.
Garrett smiled again.
"I understand there's some concern about the original legal proceedings.
I want you to know I take that seriously.
If there were errors made—"
"There weren't errors," Renata said.
"There was fabricated testimony and a falsified speed calculation filed by a lawyer who worked with your family for fifteen years."
Garrett's smile didn't move.
"That's a serious allegation."
"It's a serious filing," she said.
"With the bar association.
With supporting documentation." She placed her folder on the table.
"Including an original witness statement that contradicts the version your lawyer submitted."
Garrett glanced at the folder.
Then at Marcus.
"You gave them the document," he said quietly.
"Yes," Marcus said.
"That document is private family correspondence.
It was obtained without—"
"It was in a box in a garage," Marcus said.
"In a house where I lived.
I found it.
I copied it.
I kept it." He held his brother's gaze.
"For twenty years I kept it because I didn't know what else to do with it.
Now I know."
Garrett leaned back.
The smile was gone now.
"You understand what I told you this morning still stands," he said to Marcus.
"The paperwork I mentioned.
One phone call."
"Make it," Marcus said.
Garrett looked at him.
"Make the call," Marcus said again.
"Tell them whatever you want.
I have nothing left to protect that's worth more than doing the right thing." He paused.
"You taught me that, actually.
By showing me exactly what a man looks like when he protects the wrong things his whole life."
The table was very quiet.
Garrett turned to me.
"Ms.
Calloway.
I'm prepared to make a donation to your foundation.
A significant one.
In the interest of—"
"No," I said.
"The number I have in mind—"
"There is no number," I said.
"This isn't about money."
He looked at Renata.
"What is it about, then?
What do you actually want?"
Renata opened the folder.
She took out a single sheet of paper and placed it in front of him.
"I want you to read that," she said.
"Out loud."
He looked down at it.
It was a medical summary.
Patricia Osei.
Injury record.
Rehabilitation timeline.
Final years.
"I'm not going to—"
"Read it," Marcus said.
Garrett's jaw tightened.
He looked around the cafe.
A few other customers.
The counter staff.
Nobody paying particular attention.
May you like
He looked back at the page.
And then, slowly, in a voice stripped of the easy smile, he began to read.
