Chapter 8: The Forgery
The district attorney's office moved faster than anyone expected.
Sable called Marlowe on a Tuesday morning, before eight.
"They've identified the forged signature," she said.
"A forensic document examiner compared it to three samples of your handwriting from the same period.
The conclusion is definitive — the signature on the property transfer was not yours."
Marlowe was standing in her kitchen.
She set her coffee down.
"What happens now?"
"The DA is filing charges against Garrick.
Fraud.
Forgery of a legal instrument.
Potentially wire fraud if they can show the holding company was used to move funds across state lines, which they believe it was." Sable paused.
"Cordelia is not being charged at this stage.
The DA found insufficient evidence that she knew about the forgery specifically — only that she knew about the transfer."
"Frances's notes."
"Show she knew about the transfer and the intent to exclude you.
They don't show she knew Garrick forged your name.
The DA is drawing that line for now." Another pause.
"It may change as the investigation continues."
Marlowe picked up her coffee again.
It had gone cold.
"And Delphine?"
"Delphine Carre is being interviewed as a material witness.
Her name is on the Veltrane filing.
Whether she faces charges depends on what she tells them."
---
The charges were filed on a Thursday.
Marlowe knew because Sable called.
She also knew because, within two hours, three people she hadn't spoken to in years sent her messages — former colleagues, a neighbor from the house she and Garrick had shared before she moved out, a woman from her book club who had stopped inviting her after the separation.
*Saw the news.
Are you all right?*
*Thinking of you.*
*Call me if you need anything.*
She didn't call any of them.
She sat at her kitchen table with her phone face-down and thought about what Garrick's face had looked like in that courtroom — the moment his confidence had left him.
The moment he had looked at her and seen, for the first time, that she had not been the person he thought she was.
She had not been the woman who signed things without reading them.
She had not been the woman who would accept whatever was left after he was done taking.
She had been paying attention for years.
She had simply waited until the right moment to show it.
---
Garrick's arraignment was on a Friday morning.
Marlowe did not attend.
She had no reason to be there, and she had no desire to watch it as a spectacle.
She asked Sable to call her when it was done.
The call came at eleven-fifteen.
"He entered a not guilty plea," Sable said.
"His new attorney — he's replaced Prescott — requested bail.
It was granted.
He's out."
"New attorney," Marlowe said.
"Prescott withdrew.
Conflict of interest, given that Cordelia is still a named party in the civil proceedings and Prescott was representing both." Sable's voice was measured.
"Garrick's new counsel is named Whitmore.
He's aggressive and expensive."
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means Garrick is going to fight this.
He's not going to accept a plea quietly." Sable paused.
"It also means he's going to try to make the narrative about you.
About the letter, about Frances, about the timing of everything.
He's going to say you orchestrated this."
"I sent a letter to a judge with documents I legally obtained," Marlowe said.
"That's not orchestration.
That's evidence."
"I know that.
You know that." Sable's voice was steady.
"Make sure you don't say anything to anyone that could be taken out of context.
No interviews.
No social media.
Nothing."
"I haven't said a word publicly."
"Good.
Keep it that way." A pause.
"Marlowe.
This is going to get harder before it gets easier.
Whitmore is going to dig into your marriage, your finances, your conduct.
He's going to try to make you look like the aggressor."
Marlowe was quiet for a moment.
"Let him try," she said.
After she hung up, she sat for a while in the quiet of her kitchen.
Then she opened her laptop and looked at the folder she had kept for two years — the one she had never shown anyone until she sent it to Judge Blackwood.
Bank records.
Emails.
A photograph of a document she had found by accident in Garrick's home office, left out because he had never believed she would look.
She had looked.
She closed the laptop.
Outside, it had started to rain.
She watched it for a while through the kitchen window, the drops running down the glass in slow, uneven lines.
Her phone lit up on the table.
A number she didn't recognize.
She let it ring.
It rang six times.
Then stopped.
No voicemail.
It rang again thirty seconds later.
She answered.
"Mrs.
Ashby." A woman's voice.
Not Cordelia.
Not Delphine.
Someone younger, with a careful, professional tone.
"My name is Renata Voss.
I'm an investigative journalist with the Tribune.
I'd like to speak with you about the Sterling case."
Marlowe's hand tightened on the phone.
"How did you get this number?" she asked.
A pause.
"I'd rather discuss that in person, if you're willing to meet."
"I'm not," Marlowe said.
"And I'd like to know how you got this number."
Another pause.
Longer.
"Mrs.
Ashby," Renata Voss said.
"I think you should know — I've already spoken with Garrick Sterling.
He has a version of events he'd like made public.
I wanted to give you the opportunity to respond before anything is published."
May you like
Marlowe closed her eyes for one second.
Then she said, "Give me your editor's direct line."
