Chapter 7: What Marcus Did Next
He arrived in nineteen.
Gerald was home by then.
The three of us sat at the kitchen table — the same table where the invoice had been placed, where Lily had put her hand over mine — and Marcus laid his phone flat in the center.
"I've been doing more digging," he said.
He'd gone back further in the email thread.
Past the first message to Carla.
Past the price range discussion.
There was an earlier exchange, buried, that he hadn't seen the first time.
He read it aloud.
Eight months ago, Dylan had emailed Carla about a different property.
Our old house.
The one we'd sold to fund the new one.
She had asked Carla to assess whether the sale price we'd received was fair, and whether — her words — *the proceeds were being managed wisely for people their age.*
"She was watching our finances," Gerald said.
He said it the way he said most things: quietly, with precision.
"She was building a picture," Marcus said.
"Of two elderly people who might need guidance.
Who might need someone to step in and help manage things."
I thought about the lunch.
The warm concern about Gerald's knee.
The careful questions about the neighborhood, the upkeep, whether we'd thought it through.
"She was going to suggest a power of attorney," I said.
Both of them looked at me.
"Not today.
Not yet.
But that's where this was going.
Get us to feel overwhelmed.
Get us to trust her judgment.
Get Marcus to think I was struggling.
Then suggest, very reasonably, that it might be easier if someone helped manage the financial decisions." I looked at Gerald.
"Someone with access."
Gerald's jaw tightened.
Just slightly.
"That's a serious accusation," Marcus said.
But he didn't say I was wrong.
"She told me to keep you out of it," I said.
"She called it woman to woman.
But what she meant was: *don't let Marcus know I was here, and don't let him know what I said.* That's not a woman trying to protect a marriage.
That's someone trying to isolate me from my son."
Marcus picked up his phone.
He looked at it for a moment, then set it back down.
"I need to talk to her," he said.
"Properly.
Not a dinner.
Not a phone call.
Sit-down, no Lily in the room."
"What will you say?" Gerald asked.
"I'm going to give her the chance to tell me the truth.
All of it.
The emails, the lunch, today.
If she tells me the truth, we figure out where we go from there." He paused.
"If she lies—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
He didn't need to.
He left an hour later.
Gerald and I sat on the back patio as the sun went down, two glasses of iced tea between us, the pool catching the last of the light.
It was exactly the kind of evening we had imagined when we'd bought this house.
"Are you frightened?" Gerald asked.
"No," I said.
And I meant it.
"Are you?"
"No." He was quiet for a moment.
"I'm sad.
For Marcus.
For Lily."
I reached over and took his hand.
We sat like that for a long time.
The frog Lily had found was somewhere near the edge of the pool.
We could hear it but not see it.
My phone lit up on the table between us.
A text from Marcus.
*She denied everything.
Said the emails were taken out of context.
Said you've been trying to push her out since the beginning and this is just the latest version of it.*
I read it to Gerald.
He exhaled slowly.
My phone lit up again.
*I recorded the conversation, Mom.
With her knowledge — I told her at the start.
She still lied.
I have it all.*
And then, thirty seconds later:
*She asked me whose side I was on.*
I stared at that last message for a long moment.
Then I typed back: *What did you tell her?*
May you like
His reply came immediately.
*I told her that was the wrong question.*
