Chapter 6: What He Said When He Had Nothing Left
He tried four more things before it was over.
The first was sympathy.
He looked at Diane with an expression I imagine had worked before — tired, remorseful, the face of a man carrying something heavy.
"I need help," he said.
"I know that.
I've known it for a long time.
I'm not a bad person, Di.
I'm someone who got lost."
Diane looked at him the way you look at a word you've read so many times it has stopped meaning anything.
"The solicitor's name is Karen Albright," she said.
"She has copies of everything on that phone.
The transfers, the messages, the account the money went into.
The account that is not our joint account."
His jaw moved.
"You had no right to go through my—"
"Eleven women, Paul."
The second thing he tried was me.
He turned in his chair and leaned forward slightly, dropping his voice, and for a moment I could hear the man I'd thought I knew — the warmth in it, the intimacy, the particular frequency that had made me feel, for six months, that someone was paying attention.
"You understand loneliness," he said.
"You told me that.
You told me about the house after the divorce, about the afternoons.
I wasn't lying about that part.
I heard you.
I genuinely heard you."
"Don't," I said.
"What we had—"
"Was a performance," I said.
"And I was the audience."
He sat back.
The third thing he tried was Joel.
He looked at his son, who had not moved from the end of the table, and his voice changed again — softer, more desperate.
"Joel.
Whatever you think of me right now, I am still your father.
I need you to understand that people are complicated.
That adults make mistakes that have nothing to do with—"
"Dad." Joel's voice was very quiet.
"I've known about this since I was fifteen."
The kitchen went still.
"What?" Paul said.
"I found messages on the laptop.
I didn't know what to do with it." Joel looked at his hands.
"I told Mum six months ago.
She's the one who started looking."
Paul stared at his son.
Something moved across his face that might have been genuine feeling — the shock of a man realizing the walls came down from the inside.
"You told her."
"Yes."
"Joel—"
"You were taking money from people who were lonely," Joel said.
"From women who thought you were their friend." He finally looked up.
"I'm seventeen.
I knew it was wrong."
The fourth thing Paul tried was the door.
He stood up.
Pushed back his chair.
His voice went hard and flat in a way I hadn't heard before — the voice underneath the warmth, the one the warmth had been covering.
"I'm not doing this tonight.
This is my house.
I'm not sitting here being interrogated in my own—"
"Sit down, Paul." Diane didn't raise her voice.
She reached into the kitchen drawer beside her and took out a folded piece of paper and set it on the table.
"Karen filed this afternoon.
You've been served as of this morning.
That's a copy."
He looked at the paper.
He didn't pick it up.
"The original is with the court," Diane said.
"The financial records are with the fraud investigator Karen referred me to.
His name is on the second page." She folded her hands.
"You can leave if you want.
But you'll need to find somewhere to go, because the locks are being changed tomorrow morning."
Paul stood at the edge of the kitchen for a long moment.
Then he looked at me.
Not with the warmth.
Not with the calculation.
Just looked at me, the way a person looks when they have run out of versions of themselves to try.
"I'm sorry," he said.
I didn't say anything.
He picked up his keys from the counter.
He walked down the hall.
The front door opened and closed.
May you like
Joel let out a long, slow breath.
Outside, the car started.
