Chapter 8: The Document Diane Kept
Carol called me two days later.
"She has it," she said.
"Diane has the original document.
A printed bank statement with Wesley's name and the account number.
He gave it to her himself — said he wanted her to know the money was real.
That he was serious about their future."
"Will she give it to us?"
A long pause.
"I talked to her last night," Carol said.
"I told her everything.
About the timeline.
About when the account was opened.
About what he told you at the photoshoot."
"How did she take it?"
"She didn't speak for about two minutes.
Then she said, 'He opened that account before he even knew me.'"
"Yes."
"She cried for a long time.
Then she asked me if you hated her."
I looked out the window at the backyard.
The garden where we had taken the photographs.
The table where the blue gift box had sat.
"Tell her I don't," I said.
"Tell her we were both lied to."
Carol exhaled.
"She'll give you the document.
She wants to.
She said — and I'm quoting her — 'He doesn't deserve to get away with it.'"
We arranged to meet the following afternoon, all three of us, at Carol's apartment.
It was the strangest hour of my life.
Diane was younger than I expected, with red eyes and a tissue in her hand, and she stood up when I walked in like she wasn't sure whether to apologize or run.
"I didn't know," she said immediately.
"I mean — I knew he was married.
But I believed him when he said it was over."
"I know," I said.
"I'm so sorry."
"I believe you."
She handed me a manila envelope.
Inside was a single printed bank statement, the account number visible, Wesley's name at the top, and a handwritten note paper-clipped to the front — different from the one Carol had found.
This one said: *For us.
No one touches this.
— W*
I photographed every page and sent them to Ruth before I left the building.
Ruth called within the hour.
"This is the account," she said.
"Same number.
This gives us the direct link between Wesley and the concealed funds.
Combined with the transfer history, this is more than enough."
"What happens now?"
"Now we go to the hearing," she said.
"And he answers for it."
The hearing was scheduled for three weeks later.
In those three weeks, Wesley tried twice more to reach me outside of legal channels.
Once by phone — I let it go to voicemail.
He said he thought we could still resolve this quietly, that things had gotten out of hand, that he was worried about the girls.
The second time, he came to the house on a Saturday morning while the girls were at my mother's.
"I need you to understand something," he said, standing in the kitchen.
"I made mistakes.
I know that.
But I never stopped caring about this family."
"You moved seventy-three thousand dollars out of our accounts over fourteen months," I said.
"While I was pregnant.
While I was raising our children.
While I was planning a photoshoot to make you happy."
He had no answer for that.
"The hearing is in eleven days," I said.
"Say what you need to say there."
He left.
I stood at the kitchen window and watched his car back out of the driveway.
Then I called my mother and asked her to bring the girls home early.
May you like
I wanted to hear their voices.
I wanted to make dinner and help with homework and read bedtime stories and feel the house full of the things that were still real.
