Chapter 8: The Choice Diane Promised
Diane arrived at nine in the morning with a leather folder and no small talk.
My mother took the children to the park.
The house went quiet.
We sat at the kitchen table — the same table where I'd held the unopened envelope two nights ago — and Diane laid out the documents one by one.
The joint account had been opened in 2009, before Tom and I met.
It had been a shared account between Tom and Daniel for a family property that was eventually sold.
The account should have been closed.
It wasn't.
Over twenty-six months, Daniel had made forty-one withdrawals.
Small enough not to trigger automatic alerts.
Consistent enough to be a pattern.
The total was $34,000.
"He was careful," Diane said.
"Not careful enough, but careful."
"Did Tom know the whole time?"
"He found out fourteen months ago.
He confronted Daniel once, privately.
Daniel said he'd pay it back.
He made two deposits, then stopped." She turned a page.
"Tom didn't push further.
I think he was already sick by then and didn't have the energy for a fight he wasn't sure he'd live to finish."
I looked at the withdrawal records.
Forty-one neat rows.
Dates, amounts, a reference code that meant nothing.
"What are my options?" I said.
"You can pursue repayment privately, through me.
You can report it to the bank and let them initiate a fraud review, which would likely involve law enforcement.
Or you can confront Daniel directly and give him the opportunity to make it right before any of that happens." She looked at me.
"Tom's letter suggested the third option.
But it's your choice, not his."
Before I could answer, my phone rang.
Daniel.
I looked at Diane.
She nodded once.
I answered and put it on speaker.
"Claire, hey — I've been trying to reach you.
Did you get my message?"
"I did," I said.
"I've been busy."
"Of course, of course.
I just — I wanted to talk before things got complicated.
You know how lawyers can make everything more formal than it needs to be." A small, practiced laugh.
"Tom and I always handled things between ourselves.
I think he'd want that to continue."
"What things specifically?" I said.
A pause.
Shorter than he wanted it to be.
"Just — the estate.
Making sure everything is divided fairly.
Tom and I had some shared history, financially, and I want to make sure that's accounted for properly before—"
"Before I meet with Diane Marsh?" I said.
Silence.
"You've already spoken with her."
"She's been my attorney since the day we landed," I said.
"Tom arranged it."
Another silence.
Longer.
"Claire." His voice had changed — the warmth thinned out, something harder underneath.
"I don't know what she's told you, but there are two sides to every—"
"I have the account records, Daniel."
The line went very quiet.
"I have forty-one transactions over twenty-six months," I said.
"I have the dates.
I have the amounts.
I have the two deposits you made after Tom confronted you, and I have the twenty-four months of nothing after that."
"That account was — Tom and I had an arrangement—"
"Tom's letter says otherwise."
I heard him exhale.
A long, slow breath that was trying to be controlled and wasn't quite making it.
"He left a letter," Daniel said.
Not a question.
"He thought of everything," I said.
"You know how he was."
Diane was watching me with her hands flat on the table and her expression completely still.
"What do you want?" Daniel said finally.
"I want you to come here," I said.
"Today.
And I want you to sit down with Diane and me and talk about how you're going to make this right."
"And if I don't?"
"Then Diane files the bank report tomorrow morning and it stops being a family conversation."
The silence stretched.
"I'll be there at two," he said.
He hung up.
I set the phone on the table.
Diane picked up her coffee.
"Well done," she said.
"I feel sick," I said.
"That's appropriate," she said.
"It means you're taking it seriously." She paused.
"He'll come.
And he'll have a story.
Let him tell it.
Don't interrupt.
When he's finished, I'll speak.
You only need to say one thing."
"What's that?"
"Whatever you actually feel," she said.
"Not what you think Tom would want.
Not what's strategically correct.
What you feel.
That's the only thing that will land with him."
I looked at the withdrawal records still spread across the table.
Forty-one rows.
Twenty-six months.
My husband, already sick, choosing not to spend his remaining energy on a fight with his brother.
"He protected him," I said.
"Even then."
"Yes," Diane said quietly.
"He did."
"I don't know if I can do the same."
"You don't have to decide that now," she said.
"You just have to be in the room."
At two o'clock, a car pulled up outside.
I watched from the kitchen window as Daniel got out.
He was wearing a jacket, which meant he'd thought about how he looked.
He stood beside his car for a moment, looking at the house, and I saw something move across his face — not guilt exactly, but the shadow of it.
May you like
He rang the doorbell.
I went to open it.
