Chapter 8: Monday Morning
Richard Calloway picked up on the first ring.
"I saw the news," he said.
"Congratulations are already two days old but I'll say them again."
"Thank you, Richard." I was standing at the window of my Silver Lake house, coffee in hand, the Sunday morning light coming in flat and pale.
"I need a referral.
Securities defense.
Someone who handles SEC investigations — co-investor exposure, not the primary target."
A brief pause.
"How serious?"
"Serious enough that he needs someone by Monday."
"Family?"
"My brother."
Richard was quiet for a moment.
"I know someone.
She's the best in Los Angeles for this specific situation.
I'll text you her number in the next ten minutes."
"Thank you."
"Alexandra." His voice shifted slightly.
"Is he a good person who made a bad decision, or is this something else?"
"He's a good person who made a bad decision and then spent fourteen months making smaller bad decisions trying to cover the first one."
"That's the most common story I hear," Richard said.
"It's also the most fixable." A pause.
"I'll send the number."
He did.
Her name was Diane Okafor.
I forwarded it to Marcus with a single line: *Call her first thing Monday.
Tell her Richard sent you.
Tell her everything.*
He responded four minutes later.
*I will.
Thank you.*
Then, after a moment: *I mean it.*
I set my phone face-down on the counter and made a second cup of coffee.
Diane Okafor called me on Monday afternoon.
"Your brother came in this morning," she said.
"I want you to know I can't discuss the specifics of his case with you."
"I know.
I'm not asking you to."
"Good." A brief pause.
"I will say that the situation is more manageable than he believed it was.
He had convinced himself it was worse than the documents actually show." Another pause.
"People do that.
They carry something alone long enough and it grows."
"Yes," I said.
"They do."
"He also told me something I wasn't expecting." She sounded carefully neutral.
"He said his sister fronted the retainer and that he intends to pay it back in full within the year."
"That's between him and me."
"Of course." I could hear the slight shift in her voice — not quite warmth, but something adjacent to it.
"I'll be in touch with him directly going forward.
But I wanted you to know he showed up.
On time.
With everything I asked for.
And he was honest." A pause.
"That matters more than people think."
"I know," I said.
"Thank you, Diane."
I hung up and stood in my kitchen for a moment.
The house was quiet.
Not empty — it had never felt empty to me, the way some people's houses feel empty when they live alone.
It felt like mine.
Like a place that had been chosen deliberately, furnished slowly, lived in without apology.
My phone lit up again.
Not a call this time.
A text from Mom.
*Are you free for dinner Thursday?
Just us.
No occasion.
I want to cook for you.*
I looked at the message for a moment.
Then I typed back: *Yes.
I'll bring wine.*
Her reply came immediately.
May you like
A single word.
*Good.*
