Chapter 8: The Thing He Did That Finished It
Patricia called me the following Thursday.
"I have the property records," she said.
"Sit down if you're not already."
I sat.
"The document Grant had you sign in February was not a refinancing form." Her voice was careful and precise.
"It was a quitclaim deed.
You signed over your share of the house."
The kitchen was very quiet.
One of the boys was making small sounds in the next room, the soft experimental noises they made before deciding whether to cry.
"He took my name off the house," I said.
"Yes."
"While I was eight months pregnant."
"Yes."
I set my hand flat on the table.
"Can it be reversed?" I said.
"We're going to argue it was signed under fraudulent misrepresentation," Patricia said.
"You were told it was a refinancing document.
You were not given independent legal advice.
You were eight months pregnant and had no reason to distrust your husband." A pause.
"It's a strong argument.
I've seen courts overturn these."
"And if they don't?"
"Then we pursue it as a marital asset that was unlawfully transferred, and we go after equivalent value in the settlement." Her tone didn't waver.
"Either way, Claire, he does not get to keep that house."
I exhaled slowly.
"There's more," she said.
"Tell me."
"The company has formally referred the vendor account matter to their legal team.
Richard Holt signed off on it yesterday.
Grant has been placed on administrative leave pending investigation." She paused.
"He doesn't know about the quitclaim argument yet.
He thinks his biggest problem is the company."
"He's wrong," I said.
"Considerably," Patricia said.
That evening, Grant called.
I let it go to voicemail.
He called again.
I let that go too.
The third time, I picked up.
"We need to talk about the house," he said.
His voice had changed.
The tiredness was gone.
What was underneath it was harder.
"My attorney handles that," I said.
"Claire, listen to me.
If you push this, it gets ugly for everyone.
The boys will grow up watching their parents fight in court.
Is that what you want?"
There it was.
Patricia had told me it was coming.
She had told me the exact shape it would take.
"Grant," I said.
"You forged my understanding of a legal document while I was carrying your children.
You stole from your employer to fund an apartment for another woman.
You told your colleagues we were separated while I was home recovering from surgery." I kept my voice even.
"You don't get to tell me what's ugly."
Silence.
"I'm going to need you to communicate through Patricia's office from now on," I said.
"Her number is on the paperwork she sent you this afternoon."
I ended the call.
My hands were shaking slightly.
Not from fear.
From the particular effort of saying the true thing clearly, out loud, to the person who most needed to hear it.
I went to the bassinet.
Both boys were awake, looking up at the ceiling with the serious, wondering expressions they wore when the world was being interesting.
"Hello," I said to them.
May you like
The smaller one — Thomas — turned his head and found my face.
That was enough.
