Chapter 8: Chloe
I had not expected Chloe to call.
It was Thursday — three days after Monday's meeting, two days after Julian's attorney had filed the formal complaint with the SEC's Boston regional office and copied the state attorney general.
Marcus's name had not yet appeared in any public record.
That would come later.
For now it existed only in documents and in the particular silence of people who know something is moving toward them and cannot stop it.
I was at my desk at the compliance firm when my assistant put her head in.
"There's a Chloe Vance on the line.
She says it's personal."
I looked at the brief I had been reading.
I set it face-down.
"Put her through."
A click.
Then Chloe's voice — and it sounded nothing like the woman who had smiled at me across a wedding reception four days ago.
"Evelyn."
"Chloe."
"I need you to know I didn't know about the account with your name." The words came quickly, rehearsed but brittle.
"I knew about the shell companies.
I knew the financials weren't — I knew things weren't straightforward.
But I didn't know he'd used you specifically.
I want that on record."
"This isn't a recorded line, Chloe."
"I know.
I'm saying it anyway." A pause.
"The money he transferred to me before the divorce — I thought it was a gift.
I thought it was him being generous.
I didn't ask where it came from."
"Two hundred and forty thousand dollars," I said.
"And you didn't ask."
Silence.
"I was twenty-nine," she said.
"I was in love with him.
Or I thought I was."
"And now?"
Another pause.
Longer.
"His attorney called me this morning," Chloe said.
"He wants me to sign a statement saying the transfer was a loan.
That I agreed to repayment terms.
That there's documentation." Her voice thinned.
"There is no documentation.
Because it was never a loan."
I leaned back in my chair.
"Chloe.
I'm going to say this once.
If Marcus's attorney contacts you again and asks you to sign anything, you need your own attorney in the room before you touch a pen.
Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"And if you have documentation — anything at all, emails, texts, bank records — you need to give them to your attorney and let them decide what to do with it."
"I have texts," she said quietly.
"From when he was transferring the money.
He was — he was very specific about what it was for.
He said it was her money anyway.
Yours.
He said you'd never know it was gone."
My hand tightened slightly on the phone.
"He said that in writing."
"Yes."
I looked at the brief on my desk.
The afternoon light was coming through the window at a low angle, catching the dust in the air.
"Get an attorney," I said.
"Today.
Not tomorrow."
"Evelyn." Her voice dropped to something smaller.
"I'm sorry.
For what I did to your marriage.
I know that doesn't fix anything."
I thought about what to say.
I thought about the kitchen, five years ago.
The barefoot woman in Marcus's shirt who had looked at me with something that wasn't quite guilt and wasn't quite triumph.
"It doesn't fix anything," I said.
"But thank you for calling."
I hung up.
My assistant appeared in the doorway again.
"Everything okay?"
"Yes." I picked up the brief and turned it back over.
"Can you get Julian Rhodes on the line for me?
Tell him it's about the Mercer matter."
She nodded and disappeared.
I read the same paragraph three times before the phone rang.
When Julian picked up, I told him about the texts.
He was quiet for a moment.
"She'll cooperate," he said.
It wasn't a question.
"I think so.
If she gets the right attorney."
"I'll have Grace send her a referral." A pause.
"How are you?"
I looked out the window at the grey October sky.
"I'm fine," I said.
And then, because it was true and because he would know if it wasn't: "I'm better than fine, actually.
I'm just — I'm sitting here thinking about how long he must have been planning all of it.
And I keep coming back to the same thing."
"What's that?"
"He thought the worst thing I could do was fight back.
So he made sure I'd be too ashamed to try." I set the brief down.
"He didn't know that I'd just — stop.
Walk away.
Keep the drive.
Wait."
"He underestimated patience," Julian said.
"He underestimated compliance attorneys," I said.
Julian laughed — a real one, quiet and warm.
"Come home early tonight," he said.
"Emma wants to show you something she made at school."
"What is it?"
May you like
"She won't tell me.
She says it's only for you."
