Chapter 8: The Investor Who Knew Too Much
Carol Ashworth had invested four hundred thousand dollars into Julian's company.
She told me this at the start of our call, plainly, without embarrassment — the way someone states a fact they have already made peace with being angry about.
"I've been in business for thirty years," she said.
"I know how to read people.
I thought I read Julian correctly."
"What changed?"
"A colleague forwarded me something this afternoon.
An email chain — the ones Julian sent out eighteen months ago.
Telling people the marriage was over." Her voice was precise and controlled.
"I was not on the original distribution list.
He was selective about who he told.
I was shown the venue as a stable, focused founder.
No complications."
"He told you what he needed you to believe," I said.
"Yes.
And I invested on that basis — on the picture he presented of himself." A pause.
"I'm not calling to complain about being deceived, though I am.
I'm calling because if there is a legal process underway, I want to know about it.
And I want to know whether the money in that company is clean."
I thought about Patrick's accountant.
The fourteen months of transfers.
The hundred and eighty thousand from the business account, the additional amount from ours.
"I can't tell you what I know officially," I said.
"But I can tell you that there is a civil claim filed, and that the attorney involved would want to speak with you."
"I expected as much." She was quiet for a moment.
"Can I ask you something directly?"
"Go ahead."
"Did you know?
Any of it?"
"No," I said.
"I was working double shifts while he was moving the money.
I sold my car to help him focus on the startup.
I found out the same night you met me — at the party."
A long silence.
"I owe you an apology," Carol said.
I wasn't expecting that.
"For what?"
"I spoke to you briefly at the party.
Before everything happened.
You were standing near the bar and I thought —" She stopped.
"Julian had positioned you as a hanger-on.
Someone who had shown up uninvited.
I was dismissive.
I shouldn't have been."
I remembered the moment.
A woman in a dark blazer who had looked through me while talking to someone else.
"You didn't know," I said.
"That's not an excuse for how I treated you." Another pause.
"I'd like to speak with Patrick Reeves's attorney.
Would you pass along my contact information?"
"I will."
We ended the call.
I sat very still for a moment.
Then I called Patrick.
"Carol Ashworth just contacted me," I said when he answered.
"She wants to speak with your attorney.
She's an investor — four hundred thousand in.
She has the emails and she's asking questions about the source of the company's funds."
Silence on his end.
Then: "How did she get the emails?"
"A colleague forwarded them.
I don't know who."
"Diane," he said quietly.
Not a question.
I thought about Diane at the launch party.
The way she had positioned herself near the door.
The way she had already known Patrick's name when I mentioned it.
"She's been working on this longer than she told me," I said.
"She came to me first," Patrick said.
"Six weeks ago.
She'd already gathered the email chain by then.
She wanted to understand the full picture before she moved." He exhaled.
"She's the one who told me about the launch party date.
That's why I filed when I did."
The pieces settled into place.
Diane in the red dress.
Diane who had approached me.
Diane who had said *you should ask him why* — not to provoke me, but to open a door she had spent weeks preparing.
"She could have told me directly," I said.
"She said she needed to see how you responded to the photo first.
Whether you'd confront him or walk away." Patrick's voice was careful.
"She said she'd seen too many women walk away."
I thought about standing on those steps in the cold.
The unknown number.
The choice to call it.
"She took a risk," I said.
"She did.
So did you."
I passed Carol's contact details to Patrick and ended the call.
I sat in the kitchen until it was fully dark outside.
Julian had built the new company on stolen money, hidden it behind a false story about our marriage, and surrounded himself with people who didn't know me well enough to ask questions.
He had been careful and deliberate and patient.
But Diane had been more patient.
And I had kept every payslip.
My phone lit up.
A text from Julian's number.
Not a message this time — just a name.
His lawyer's name and a number.
Below it, three words:
*He wants to talk.*
I stared at it.
Then I set the phone face-down on the table and went to bed.
May you like
Whatever Julian's lawyer wanted to say could wait until morning.
I had stopped waiting on Julian's schedule.
