Chapter 4: The Emails He Thought Were Gone
I stood on those steps for a long time.
The unknown number sat on my screen.
No name.
No context.
Just those two sentences and a patience that felt deliberate — whoever had sent this wasn't panicking.
They had waited this long.
They could wait a little longer.
I called.
It rang twice.
"I wondered if you'd call tonight or wait until morning," said a man's voice.
Calm.
Unhurried.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Patrick Reeves.
I was Julian's business partner.
The first company — the one that went bankrupt."
I moved down a step, away from the door.
"I remember your name."
"Then you probably remember that Julian told you the bankruptcy was unavoidable.
Market conditions.
Bad timing.
Nobody's fault."
"That's what he said, yes."
A pause.
"That's not what happened."
Inside, through the tall glass doors, I could see the party still moving.
Waitstaff with trays.
Investors in clusters.
Julian somewhere in there, probably watching the door.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I mean the company didn't fail on its own.
Julian made sure it failed.
He moved money out of the business account over fourteen months — small amounts, irregular intervals, hard to track unless you knew what you were looking for." Patrick's voice was steady, like someone reading from a document they had memorized.
"I hired an accountant eight months after the closure.
It took her six weeks to find it.
By then, Julian had already started the new company.
With the money he'd taken."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"He used our savings," I said.
"We lost the house.
I sold my car."
"I know.
I'm sorry.
I should have contacted you sooner.
I wasn't sure what you knew."
"I knew nothing." The words came out harder than I intended.
"I knew absolutely nothing."
"The accountant's report is documented.
Fourteen months of transfers.
The total is just under two hundred thousand dollars." He paused.
"Some of that money is in the new company.
The one that launched tonight."
I sat down on the step.
The cold stone came through the fabric of my dress and I didn't move.
"Why are you telling me this now?" I asked.
"Because I tried the legal route first.
My lawyer sent Julian a letter six months ago.
Julian's lawyer responded with a counter-threat — said I had no standing, that the records were incomplete, that I was a disgruntled former partner with a personal grievance." His voice tightened for the first time.
"I have standing.
The records are not incomplete.
But I don't have the resources for a long legal fight, and Julian knows that."
"So you need something from me."
"I need a witness.
Someone who can corroborate the timeline.
When the money left, what your financial situation looked like, what Julian told you about the bankruptcy.
Your testimony would change the weight of the case considerably."
The glass doors opened behind me.
I turned.
It was Diane.
She wrapped her coat around herself and came to stand beside me on the steps, looking out at the street.
"He's asking people where you went," she said quietly.
"I told them you needed a moment."
I looked at the phone in my hand.
"I have to go," I told Patrick.
"Don't delete anything."
"I haven't deleted anything in eight months," he said.
"Call me tomorrow."
I ended the call.
Diane glanced at the phone.
"Patrick Reeves?"
I looked at her.
"You know him?"
"He called me too.
Three weeks ago." She pulled her coat tighter.
"That's when I understood why Julian had told everyone you were separated.
He needed people around him who didn't know you.
Who wouldn't ask questions.
Who wouldn't compare stories."
The door opened again.
Julian stepped out.
He saw us both and stopped.
"Come inside," he said.
"Both of you.
We can resolve this privately."
Diane looked at him for a long moment.
"There's nothing private left to resolve, Julian," she said.
His eyes moved to me.
Something in them shifted — the careful composure he'd worn all evening beginning, finally, to slip.
"How much did he tell you?" he asked.
I stood up from the step.
May you like
"Enough," I said.
"But I want to hear the rest from you."
