Chapter 6: The Part Where He Thought He Could Still Win
The filing landed on Alexander's attorney's desk at 4:47 on a Friday afternoon.
I know this because Patricia told me, and because Alexander called me at 4:52.
I let it ring.
He called again at 5:08.
Then 5:31.
Then a number I didn't recognize — a different phone, borrowed or new.
I let that ring too.
At 6:15, he appeared at the apartment.
I had expected that.
I had also called Patricia, who had advised me clearly: let him in, say very little, record everything.
Illinois is a one-party consent state.
I had set my phone on the kitchen counter before he arrived, screen-down, recording.
He came through the door with the energy of a man who had spent two hours deciding which version of himself to lead with.
He had chosen reasonable.
Calm.
Wounded, but trying.
"I don't want to fight," he said.
"Then don't."
"Patricia Hale is a scorched-earth attorney.
Whatever Ryan is paying her—"
"Ryan isn't paying her," I said.
"I am."
That landed.
He absorbed it and kept going.
"Claudia, if we go to court, everything comes out.
My business.
Your family finances.
Things that don't need to become public record." He sat down at the kitchen table — my kitchen table, the one I had sat at alone for nine years of late dinners.
"I'm asking you to consider mediation.
A private settlement.
We can make each other whole without destroying everything."
"You want to make me whole," I said.
"I want to fix this."
"The three hundred and forty thousand dollars from my father's account."
"I'll repay it.
Every dollar.
I'll sign whatever you need."
"The two hundred and eighty thousand in fraudulent loans on my credit."
"I'll refinance them into the business.
Your name comes off within sixty days."
"The Wicker Park property."
He paused.
"I'll transfer the deed.
You can sell it."
I looked at him.
He was offering everything I could measure in dollars.
He was offering nothing that couldn't be calculated.
"Alexander," I said.
"My father sat at this table and told me that money was my foundation.
You looked me in the eye at his funeral and told me you would protect what he left me." I paused.
"Which part of that do you think a private settlement fixes?"
His jaw tightened.
"I understand you're angry—"
"I'm not angry," I said.
"I'm done."
The reasonableness left his face then.
What came through underneath it was harder.
"If you push this into crjminal territory," he said quietly, "it doesn't just affect me.
It affects the firm.
Forty-three people work for that company, Claudia.
Forty-three families.
You want to blow that up over—"
"Over fraud?" I said.
"Over identity theft?
Over two forged signatures?"
"Over a mistake that I am sitting here trying to correct."
"You're sitting here trying to avoid consequences," I said.
"There's a difference."
He stood up.
The chair scraped back hard.
"I gave you nine years," he said.
"I built something real.
You're going to let Ryan and some lawyer turn that into a crjminal case because you're hurt?
Because you want to punish me?"
"I'm not trying to punish you," I said.
"I'm trying to make sure you can't do this to anyone else."
He stared at me.
Something moved across his face — something I couldn't name and didn't want to.
"You'll regret this," he said.
"Maybe," I said.
"But not for the reasons you think."
He picked up his jacket and walked to the door.
His hand was on the handle when he turned back.
"Tell Patricia Hale she'll be hearing from Marcus Webb."
Marcus Webb was one of the most expensive defense attorneys in Chicago.
"I'll let her know," I said.
He left.
I waited until I heard the elevator close.
Then I picked up my phone, stopped the recording, and sent the file to Patricia.
Her reply came back in four minutes.
*Got it.
He just made our case stronger.
Get some sleep.*
I didn't sleep.
May you like
But for the first time since I had stood on Michigan Avenue with my phone in my hand, I didn't feel like the ground was moving under me.
I felt like I was standing on it.
