Chapter 9: Everything on the Table
Ruth's husband's name was Gerald.
He had a calm voice and the precise, unhurried manner of someone who had spent forty years in rooms where people lied to him and had learned to wait them out.
I called him at nine.
By nine-thirty, he had reviewed the screenshot of the forged document, the photo of Eric's handwritten note to Lauren, and the text message Eric had sent two days before the flight.
Lauren had forwarded her own records — the messages, the dinner receipts Eric had paid for with what was almost certainly my debit card, the name of the hotel where they'd stayed twice in the past eight months.
"This is substantial," Gerald said.
"Is it enough?"
"For what specifically?"
"To protect myself.
To get my money back.
To make sure he can't do this again."
"The forged signature alone is a serious matter," he said.
"That's document fraud.
Whether you pursue that criminally or use it as leverage in a civil proceeding is a strategic question.
But yes — you have enough to act."
"He's going to say Lauren is lying.
That the document was a misunderstanding."
"He may.
But the handwritten note in her bag is harder to explain.
A man who writes a contingency note to his companion before a flight where his wife might discover the truth is a man who knew exactly what he was doing." A pause.
"I'd like to refer you to a colleague of mine.
Family law.
She's very good."
"Please."
He gave me the name.
I wrote it down.
After I hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the babies.
They were on the floor now, awake and reasonably content, surrounded by the small toys I'd packed.
Clara was trying to eat a plastic giraffe.
Mia was examining her own foot with deep concentration.
Noah was watching the curtain move in the air conditioning like it was the most interesting thing he'd ever seen.
I thought about the version of this trip I had imagined three weeks ago, when Eric first proposed it.
Somewhere by the ocean.
The babies in the sand.
A real rest.
I'd wanted it so badly I'd handed over my savings without enough questions.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Mrs.
Marsh?" A woman's voice.
Crisp, professional.
"My name is Sandra Cole.
I'm a reporter with the regional news desk.
I'm calling because we received a tip this morning about a document fraud case involving a — "
"I'm sorry," I said.
"I'm not speaking to press."
"Of course.
I just wanted to confirm—"
I ended the call.
I stared at the phone.
A tip.
This morning.
Eric.
He'd called a reporter.
Or someone had on his behalf.
Trying to get ahead of the story, or trying to pressure me, or both.
I called Gerald back.
"He's already talking to press," I said.
Gerald was quiet for two seconds.
"Then we move faster.
Can you be available for a call with my colleague this afternoon?"
"Yes."
"Good.
And Diane — don't speak to any reporters.
Don't post anything.
Don't respond to Eric directly unless it's in writing."
"Understood."
"One more thing." His voice shifted slightly.
"Carol Marsh called my office this morning."
Eric's mother.
"What did she want?"
"She asked me to encourage you to handle this privately.
She said a public proceeding would hurt the children."
My hand tightened on the phone.
"What did you tell her?"
"I told her I represent you, not the Marsh family, and that I'd pass along her concern." A pause.
"I'm passing it along.
For what it's worth, I don't think she's acting in bad faith.
I think she's frightened."
"She knew about the job for a year," I said.
"She stayed quiet."
"Yes," Gerald said.
"She did."
I looked at the curtain moving in the air conditioning.
Noah was still watching it.
May you like
"Let her be frightened," I said.
"It won't change anything."
