Chapter 9: What He Said at the End
Alexander called on a Tuesday evening.
Not a number I didn't recognize this time.
His own phone.
His own name on the screen.
As though the pretense of indirection had become too much effort.
I answered.
"I'm not calling to negotiate," he said.
"I just want to talk."
"All right."
A pause.
I heard him exhale.
"I've been trying to figure out when it went wrong," he said.
"Not as an excuse.
I just keep going back to it."
I didn't say anything.
"I think I told myself it wasn't real," he said.
"With Chloe.
I told myself it was separate — that it didn't touch what we had.
That I could keep both things and neither one would damage the other." Another pause.
"I know how that sounds."
"It sounds like something people tell themselves," I said.
"Yes." He was quiet for a moment.
"The money — the account, the loans — I told myself that too.
That it was temporary.
That I'd fix it before you ever had to know.
I kept moving the timeline forward." His voice was lower now.
"I kept thinking I had more time than I did."
"You had nine years," I said.
"You had the night of my father's funeral.
You had every morning I made coffee for two people."
He didn't answer that.
"I'm not going to ask you to pull back the referral," he said.
"Webb told me to.
I'm not going to." A long pause.
"I think I need to face what I did.
I don't think I understood that until about four days ago, but I think I understand it now."
I sat with that.
"Is that true?" I asked.
"Or is that what you're saying because Webb told you that saying it might help?"
A short, humorless sound.
Almost a laugh.
"I don't know," he said.
"Maybe both.
I'm not sure I'm capable of separating them right now." He paused.
"But I wanted to say it.
Whether or not it means anything to you."
"It means something," I said.
"It doesn't change anything.
But it means something."
Another silence.
"How's Ryan?" he asked.
The question surprised me.
"He's managing."
"He's a better man than I gave him credit for," Alexander said.
"I told myself he was oblivious.
It was easier that way."
"He wasn't oblivious," I said.
"He was patient."
"Yes." A pause.
"Claudia — I'm sorry.
I know that's not enough.
I know it doesn't reach what I actually did.
But I am."
I looked at the kitchen table.
The bank statements were gone now.
Patricia had the originals.
The table was just a table again.
"I know you are," I said.
"Goodbye, Alexander."
I ended the call.
I sat in the quiet for a while.
Not thinking about him, exactly.
Thinking about the nine years of small moments that had felt real — the Sunday mornings, the inside jokes, the way he had known without asking that I needed silence after a hard day.
All of it had existed.
None of it had been enough to make him choose differently.
That was the thing I had needed to understand.
Not that the good parts were fake.
That they had simply not been enough.
And that was his failure, not mine.
I got up, rinsed my cup, and put it in the drying rack.
---
Three weeks later, Alexander accepted a structured settlement.
He stood in Patricia's conference room — not a courtroom, just a room with a table and chairs and a view of the river — and signed his name to a document that returned every dollar of my father's inheritance, cleared both fraudulent loans from my credit, transferred the Wicker Park property deed into my name, and acknowledged, in writing, the unauthorized use of my identity.
Marcus Webb stood beside him.
He did not look at me.
Alexander looked at me once, briefly, as he set down the pen.
He didn't say anything.
Neither did I.
The crjminal referral for forgery and identity fraud was submitted to the Cook County State's Attorney's office the same afternoon.
Patricia had been clear with me: the civil settlement did not close the crjminal matter.
That was for the State's Attorney to decide.
Two months later, Alexander was formally charged.
Patricia called me while I was at my desk.
"Forgery and identity fraud," she said.
"Two counts each.
His attorney has already indicated he'll seek a plea arrangement."
"Will he get one?"
"Likely.
First offense, white-collar, full cooperation with the civil settlement.
He'll probably avoid prison.
But he'll have a record.
And the firm—" She paused.
"The firm's bonding and licensing are already under review.
That's a separate process, but it's moving."
I looked out the window.
"What about Chloe?" I asked.
"The State's Attorney is reviewing her co-signature on the loan applications separately.
Her attorney has been in contact.
I expect she'll cooperate in exchange for reduced exposure." A pause.
"She'll lose the studio.
The debt is being restructured, but there's no path to keeping it open."
I thought about Chloe's studio.
The way she had talked about it in the early days — the light through the front windows, the first client she had cried about landing.
I thought about the version of her that had existed before all of this, or the version I had believed existed.
"All right," I said.
"Thank you, Patricia."
"Claudia." A brief pause.
"You did well.
This was not an easy thing to hold together."
"I had help," I said.
May you like
"You did," she said.
"But you had to decide to use it."
