Chapter 8: What He Did Next
The piece went live at 9 AM on a Thursday.
By noon, it had been shared over four thousand times.
By 3 PM, Marcus had called Sandra six times.
She let every one go to voicemail.
The last message, she forwarded to Diane and to her lawyer without listening to it herself.
She told me later she didn't want his voice in her head on that particular day.
I read the article twice.
Diane had done exactly what she'd promised.
His full name.
The pattern, documented across seven women, spanning three years.
The bank transfer attempt, timestamped.
His own words from page two of his letter, quoted directly.
The response from his ex-employer, who confirmed only that he was "no longer with the company" but declined further comment — which in context said everything.
At 4 PM, I got a call from a number I didn't recognize.
I answered it.
"You did this." Marcus.
His voice was different from the restaurant.
The smoothness was gone.
"You and Sandra and that — you went to a journalist.
You had no right."
"Everything in that article is documented," I said.
"You confirmed the bank transfer yourself.
In writing."
"That letter was private correspondence."
"You sent it to a journalist."
Silence.
"I'm going to lose my apartment," he said.
And just for a second, the calculation dropped out of his voice entirely.
He just sounded like a man standing at the edge of something.
"My landlord already called.
He saw the piece.
He's not renewing the lease."
I didn't say anything.
"I need you to call her," he said.
"The journalist.
Tell her it was exaggerated.
Tell her the context was wrong."
"I won't do that."
"I'm asking you — "
"Marcus." I kept my voice level.
"You tried to take money from Sandra's account while you were sitting across from me expecting me to pay for your dinner.
You did that to Joanna.
You did it to women you'd known for weeks.
You lied about your job, your salary, your life.
And when a journalist asked for your response, you put your admission in writing and sent it to her." I paused.
"I'm not calling anyone."
Another silence.
Longer.
"I just needed people to believe in me," he said.
"That's all it ever was.
I just needed — "
"I know," I said.
"I actually believe that.
But that's not what you did."
He hung up.
I sat with the phone in my hand for a moment.
Then I texted Sandra: *He called me.
He's rattled.
Are you okay?*
She replied within a minute: *Fine.
My lawyer called.
The financial crimes contact Diane has — they want the documentation.
Formally.
Not a guarantee of anything, but they're looking.*
Then, a second text: *Joanna's daughter called her today.
She'd seen the article.
They hadn't spoken in two years.
She called to say she was proud of her.*
I read that twice.
Then I put my phone face-down on the table and looked out the window for a while.
The following Monday, two more women contacted Diane.
One from a city three hours away.
One from a dating app that operated in four countries.
Neither had known about the others until the article.
Marcus did not call me again.
Three weeks later, Joanna sent a group message to Sandra and me.
Two sentences.
*The financial crimes unit has opened a preliminary inquiry.
It may go nowhere.
But it's open.*
Sandra replied with a single word: *Good.*
I typed the same.
Then deleted it and typed something else.
May you like
*Joanna — how's your daughter?*
Her reply came an hour later, and it was the longest message she'd sent in all the weeks I'd known her.
