Chapter 4: The Man Julian Called
Patricia Hale's office was on the fourteenth floor of a building in downtown Boston, and she had been Elena's attorney for exactly eleven days.
Elena called her from the Miami airport before collecting her bag.
"He made a call on the plane," Elena said.
"Right after we landed."
"To whom?"
"I don't know.
But it was urgent.
He turned away from me."
"It was probably Douglas Mercer," Patricia said.
"Mercer is the attorney Julian's firm uses for internal disputes.
He does some family law on the side.
If Julian called him, he's already in damage-control mode." A pause.
"That's actually good news for us.
It means he knows the freeze is real."
"What happens now?"
"Now you go to your hotel, you order room service, and you let me work.
The freeze went through this morning.
He cannot touch those accounts.
The Gloucester property flag will be confirmed by end of business today." Patricia's voice was steady and precise, the way Elena had needed it to be from the first meeting.
"Elena.
You did everything right.
Let the process do the rest."
Elena stood at the baggage carousel and watched the luggage come around.
Julian's leather duffel appeared.
He lifted it off the belt without looking at her.
Chloe was standing ten feet away, her carry-on already in her hand.
She and Julian exchanged a look that Elena couldn't fully read — not warm, not resolved.
Something strained.
They left through separate exits.
Elena collected her own bag and took a taxi to a small hotel near the water that she had booked herself, under her own name, paid with her own card.
The room was quiet.
She sat on the edge of the bed and called her sister.
"How are you?" Diane asked immediately.
"I'm in Miami."
"I know.
How are you?"
Elena looked at the window.
Outside, the sky was bright and open and completely indifferent.
"I don't know yet," she said honestly.
"Ask me in a few days."
"Maya drew a picture this morning," Diane said.
"She said it's for your studio wall.
It's a house with a very large garden."
Elena pressed her hand flat against her knee.
"Tell her I love it."
"She misses you."
"I know.
I'll be home in three days."
She ordered room service.
She ate at the small desk by the window.
She did not cry.
She had done her crying on the floor of her studio surrounded by fabric swatches, and she did not intend to do it again in a hotel room in Miami.
Her phone buzzed at 9:14 p.m.
It was a number she didn't recognize.
She almost didn't answer.
Then she did.
"Mrs.
Voss?" A woman's voice.
Young.
Careful.
"This is Chloe.
Chloe Marsh.
I got your number from — it doesn't matter how I got it.
I'm sorry to call.
I just —" A pause.
"I need to tell you something.
About Julian.
Something that wasn't in your folder."
May you like
Elena set down her fork.
"I'm listening," she said.
