Chapter 7: The Last Dinner
Detective Russo called on a Friday morning.
"We're ready," she said.
"The DA has reviewed the case.
We're moving forward."
I was in my car in a parking garage.
I kept my voice level.
"When?"
"We want to execute next Wednesday.
That gives us the weekend to coordinate with Diane and Paula, confirm statements, and brief the DA's office." A pause.
"I need you to do one more thing before then."
"What?"
"Have dinner with him Sunday night.
Somewhere public.
Get him talking about the wedding, the trust, the future.
Let him be comfortable." Her voice was measured.
"We need one more clean recording that puts his intent on record in his own words, as close to the execution date as possible.
It strengthens the timeline."
I looked at the concrete pillar in front of my car.
"All right," I said.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes."
"This is almost over," Russo said.
"You've been steady through all of it.
Don't stop now."
Sunday evening I suggested the restaurant where he'd proposed.
He seemed pleased by that — pleased in a way that made me understand he thought it meant something about my state of mind.
That I was sentimental.
That I was still his.
We were seated at a corner table.
He ordered wine.
He was in a good mood, relaxed, the version of Glenn I had once believed was the real one.
"Four weeks," he said, raising his glass.
I raised mine.
"Four weeks."
"I was thinking," he said, setting his glass down and leaning forward slightly, "that maybe we should simplify the trust structure.
Carol's approach is thorough, but it's also slow.
I know a guy — he's handled estate work for a few people I know.
He could probably get us to the same place in half the time."
"What's his name?"
"Frank Deluca.
He's good.
Very practical." Glenn smiled.
"Sometimes you just need someone who cuts through the noise."
"I'll mention it to Carol," I said.
"Or we could just go directly to Frank.
Skip the back-and-forth." He reached across and touched my hand.
"I just want this done so we can move forward.
Don't you?"
"Of course," I said.
"I want that too."
He talked for another twenty minutes.
About the wedding.
About the house.
About how good things were going to be.
He was warm and convincing and I understood, listening to him, how Ruth Calloway had signed a document she didn't understand.
How Diane had believed there would be a trust.
How eleven years could pass and a person could still not see the shape of the thing they were living inside.
I kept my phone on the table, screen down, recording.
When we got home, Glenn went upstairs.
I stayed in the kitchen and sent Carol a single message: *Done.
Good recording.
He named a second attorney — Frank Deluca.
Pushed hard to bypass you.*
She replied four minutes later: *Perfect.
That's the last piece.
Russo has everything she needs.*
Then: *Get some sleep.
Wednesday is the last day.*
I turned off the kitchen light and stood in the dark for a moment.
Eleven years.
I didn't feel angry.
I didn't feel sad.
I felt the particular quiet of someone who has been carrying something heavy for a long time and can finally see the place where they're going to be able to set it down.
I went upstairs.
Glenn was already asleep.
I lay in the dark and listened to him breathe and thought about Ruth Calloway in her rental apartment in Crestfield, and Diane Marsh with her kettle and her manila envelope, and the farmhouse that had been in someone's family for three generations.
May you like
Wednesday, I thought.
Just Wednesday.
