Chapter 8: What He Had on Me
I wasn't surprised.
I'd been waiting for it.
"What did he say he had?" I asked.
"He wouldn't tell me on the phone.
He wants to meet tonight.
Just the two of us."
"Don't meet him alone."
"I know." A pause.
"Mom, he sounded different.
Not angry.
Calm.
Like he'd already decided something."
That was the version of him I was most concerned about.
"Tell him you'll meet him," I said.
"But not alone.
Tell him you're bringing me."
"He won't like that."
"No.
He won't."
We met Greg at a wine bar near Claire's flat.
He was already seated when we arrived, a glass in front of him, jacket on, the picture of a man who had composed himself thoroughly and was prepared to be reasonable.
He looked at me when we sat down and said nothing for a moment.
"I asked to meet Claire," he said.
"I know," I said.
"Here I am anyway."
He looked at Claire.
"I wanted to do this privately."
"Whatever you have to say, you can say in front of my mother," Claire said.
He accepted that with a small nod.
Then he reached into his jacket and placed his phone on the table, screen up, and turned it toward Claire.
It was a photograph.
Me, on a street, standing very close to a man I didn't recognize.
The angle was odd — slightly elevated, slightly compressed, the way a photo looks when it has been taken from a distance and cropped.
"I had someone look into your mother," Greg said.
"After last night.
I wanted to understand why she was so determined to interfere." He tapped the photo.
"That was taken six weeks ago.
Do you know who that man is?"
Claire looked at the photo.
Then at me.
"No," I said.
"I don't know who that man is.
I don't recognize that photograph."
"It was taken outside a solicitor's office in the city center," Greg said.
"The man is a private investigator.
His name is Alan Marsh.
He specializes in family disputes." He looked at Claire.
"Your mother hired someone to investigate me before she'd ever met me."
Claire looked at me.
"That is not true," I said.
"I have the photograph."
"A photograph of me near a building near a man I don't know is not evidence of anything."
"Why were you at that address?"
"I have a solicitor in that building.
I've used her for fifteen years.
I was there about my will." I looked at him steadily.
"You can call her office and confirm the appointment if you'd like."
Something moved across his face.
Not quite uncertainty — more like recalculation.
"Even if that's true," he said, "the optics—"
"The optics," I said, "are that you had someone follow me.
And photograph me.
And build a story around a cropped image." I leaned forward slightly.
"How long have you been having me watched, Greg?"
"I wasn't—"
"You just told us you had someone look into me.
After last night.
That's less than twenty-four hours." I looked at the photo again.
"That photograph is six weeks old."
The wine bar was quiet around us.
Soft music.
Low light.
Greg's glass sat untouched.
"I want you to leave my daughter alone," he said.
His voice had dropped.
The warmth was entirely gone now.
"I want you to stop speaking to people about me.
I want you to stop whatever it is you think you're building."
"Or?" I said.
"I'm not making threats."
"You're sitting across from me with a surveillance photograph and telling me to stop.
What would you call that?"
Claire put both hands flat on the table.
"I spoke to Melissa," she said.
"And Priya.
And I know about Diane."
Greg went very still.
"I know about the complaint at the university," Claire said.
"I know about the messages that appeared afterward.
I know about the letter sent to Diane's workplace." Her voice didn't shake.
"And I know that you were not in Edinburgh the week that letter was posted."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then he picked up his wine glass and took a slow, deliberate sip.
"Those are serious allegations," he said.
"And I would be very careful about repeating them."
"I have Diane's journal," I said.
"And the envelope."
His hand stopped.
The glass was still at his lips.
"And I have three women who are willing to speak," I said.
"Together.
In the same room."
He set the glass down.
He straightened his jacket.
He looked at Claire with an expression I hadn't seen from him before — not warmth, not calculation, but something stripped back and unguarded, just for a second, before the mask came back up.
"You're making a mistake," he said.
"No," Claire said.
"I made a mistake.
I'm correcting it."
He stood.
He buttoned his jacket.
He looked at me one final time.
"You should have stayed out of it, Grandma," he said quietly.
"I should have," I agreed.
"But I didn't.
And here we are."
He walked out.
We watched him go.
Claire picked up her glass.
Her hand was steady.
She took one sip and set it back down and looked at the table for a moment.
"What happens now?" she said.
May you like
"Now," I said, "we give everything to Ros.
And then we let it work."
