Chapter 6: The Settlement He Didn't Get
Marcus's attorney was a man named Fitch — silver-haired, expensive suit, the practiced ease of someone who had talked his way out of many rooms.
He sat across from Grace and me in Grace's office on a Tuesday afternoon, three days after the night at the condo.
Marcus was not present.
His attorney had suggested that arrangement.
Grace had agreed, and told me privately that it meant Marcus already knew he was losing.
Fitch opened with sympathy.
"My client deeply regrets what happened at the residence.
He acknowledges that his behavior that evening was unacceptable, and he wants Rachel to know that he takes full responsibility."
Grace didn't look up from her notepad.
"Full responsibility for which part?"
Fitch paused.
"I'm sorry?"
"The @ssault.
The financial transfers.
The fraudulent use of signatory access.
The prior pattern of conduct with Ms.
Marsh." Grace set her pen down.
"Full responsibility for which part, specifically?"
Fitch's ease adjusted slightly.
"My client is prepared to make a substantial offer in order to resolve this matter privately and avoid—"
"There is no private resolution," I said.
Both of them looked at me.
"The police already have the bank records, the camera footage, and Diane Marsh's documentation.
That's not something a settlement check makes go away."
Fitch turned back to Grace.
"Mrs.
Harlow would be well-advised to consider—"
"My client has considered," Grace said.
"The answer is no."
Fitch was quiet for a moment.
Then he shifted in his chair and tried a different door.
"Rachel." He used my first name deliberately, leaning forward slightly.
"I understand you're angry.
What happened was wrong.
But a public crjminal process is going to be long, painful, and expensive.
It will be in the news.
Your business will be mentioned.
Your personal life will be examined.
Marcus is willing to return every dollar and sign whatever you need him to sign, if we can handle this quietly."
I looked at him steadily.
"He took money from two women," I said.
"He told both of us we were imagining it.
He stood in my kitchen and sl*pped me across the face because the soup needed salt, and then he sat back down while his mother laughed." I paused.
"There is no number that makes that quiet."
Fitch sat back.
"If this goes to a full crjminal proceeding—"
"Then it goes," Grace said pleasantly.
"We're done here, Mr.
Fitch.
Thank you for coming in."
He left.
The door closed behind him with a soft, expensive click.
Grace looked at me.
"He'll try again," she said.
"Different angle.
Maybe through his mother, maybe through a mutual contact.
He'll look for a pressure point."
"Let him look."
She studied me for a moment.
"You're sure?
It will get harder before it gets easier."
"I know."
"The press might pick it up.
Your firm's name will be in the records."
"My firm's name will also be in the records as the victim of financial fraud," I said.
"I'll take that."
Grace nodded slowly.
Then she picked up her pen and wrote something at the top of her notepad.
"All right," she said.
"Then let's talk about what we're actually going to do to him."
We sat in that office for two more hours.
When I left, the sun was low and orange over the city and I walked three blocks to my car without hurrying.
My phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
"Rachel." Marcus's voice.
Quiet, stripped of performance.
"Please.
Just — please listen for one minute."
I stopped walking.
"I know what you're thinking," he said.
"I know you're past the point where anything I say matters.
But my mother — she had nothing to do with the money.
Whatever happens to me, she shouldn't—"
"Your mother laughed," I said.
"While my face was still burning.
She laughed and raised her glass."
Silence.
"I know," he said.
"Then you know why I'm not interested in protecting her."
"Rachel—"
"Don't call me again, Marcus.
Talk to Grace."
I ended the call.
I stood on the sidewalk for a moment.
A woman walked past me with a small dog.
A cab honked somewhere to my left.
The city moved around me the way it always did, without any particular concern for what had just happened.
I put the phone in my bag and kept walking.
Then, halfway to my car, it rang again.
May you like
Not Marcus this time.
His mother.
