Chapter 8: What He Did While I Was at Susan's Office
Susan Hale called me the next morning at eight forty-five.
"I need you to come in," she said.
"Today."
"What's happened?"
"Your husband contacted the bank yesterday afternoon.
He attempted to consolidate several accounts." A pause.
"He was partially successful."
I was already reaching for my keys.
"How partial?"
"The joint savings account has been emptied.
The household account was flagged by the bank's own system before the transfer completed — there's a hold on it.
Your personal account appears untouched because it's in your name only." Another pause.
"Carol.
Did you move anything out of the joint accounts after we spoke yesterday?"
"No.
You told me not to."
"Good.
That works in your favor.
The movement is entirely on his side.
Get here as soon as you can."
I was in her office within forty minutes.
She had a second person in the room — a man she introduced as a forensic accountant named Graham Webb.
He had a printed spreadsheet on the desk in front of him and the look of someone who had been working since before sunrise.
"Mr.
Webb has had a preliminary look at the documents your son provided," Susan said.
"Graham."
He turned the spreadsheet to face me.
"Over the past eleven years, approximately three hundred and forty thousand dollars has moved through the Harwell account.
Of that, roughly two hundred and ten thousand is traceable to funds that originated in accounts held jointly with you or in your personal name."
I looked at the number.
Two hundred and ten thousand.
"My mother's inheritance," I said.
"A significant portion of it, yes.
Along with what appears to be redirected returns from a joint investment portfolio, and several transfers that were categorized in your household records as home improvement expenses."
"We didn't do that much work on the house."
"No," he said.
"You didn't."
Susan leaned forward.
"Peter's move yesterday — emptying the joint savings — was almost certainly a response to knowing you'd seen the documents.
He's trying to reduce what's accessible to you before any legal proceedings begin."
"Can we stop him?"
"We've already filed for an emergency preservation order this morning.
The judge has agreed to a temporary freeze on any further transfers from accounts connected to either of you pending review." She looked at me steadily.
"But Carol — the money he moved yesterday.
That will take time to recover, if we can recover it at all.
I want you to be prepared for that."
I looked at the spreadsheet.
Two hundred and ten thousand dollars.
Eleven years.
"There's something else," Graham said.
He turned to a second page.
"The apartment.
The one held jointly with Rachel Calloway.
It was purchased for four hundred and twenty thousand.
The down payment — one hundred and five thousand — came from the Harwell account.
Which means it came, in part, from you."
The room was very quiet.
"He bought her an apartment," I said, "with my money."
Neither of them spoke.
"Partially," Graham said finally.
"In part."
I sat back in my chair.
I thought about Peter's note on the kitchen table.
*Space will help us both think clearly.*
He hadn't gone to think.
He had gone to move money.
"Where is he now?" Susan asked.
"I assume the apartment," I said.
"In the city."
She made a note.
"Has he contacted you?"
"Not since the note."
"If he contacts you, do not discuss any of this.
Tell him your lawyer is handling communication." She looked at me over her glasses.
"And Carol — I want you to be prepared for the possibility that he will come back with a version of events that sounds very reasonable.
He may offer explanations.
He may offer to return money.
He may suggest that this was all a misunderstanding that can be resolved privately."
"And if he does?"
"You tell him to call me," she said.
"Because we are well past private resolution."
I drove home slowly.
I stopped at a red light on the corner two blocks from our house and sat there for a moment after it turned green.
Thirty-five years.
The pearl earrings.
The little Italian restaurant.
A man who pruned roses every April and had been building a second life for eleven of those years.
My phone buzzed on the passenger seat.
I looked at the screen.
It was Peter.
*Can we meet?
Just the two of us.
I think I owe you an explanation.*
I put the phone face-down on the seat and drove the rest of the way home.
I did not call him back.
May you like
But that evening, he didn't wait for a call.
He came to the house.
