Chapter 5: Gerald Fitch's First Move
Patricia had dealt with Gerald Fitch twice before.
She told me this the morning after Trevor left, sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of coffee she had made herself without asking where anything was.
"He's not incompetent," she said.
"He's strategic.
He'll look for anything that repositions Trevor as the reasonable party."
"Trevor left his pregnant wife to go on vacation with his girlfriend," I said.
"Yes." Patricia turned a page.
"And his attorney will argue that the marriage was already functionally over, that both parties had been unhappy for some time, and that Trevor's absence — while regrettable — does not constitute abandonment under the legal definition."
I looked at her.
"Is that true?"
"It's an argument," she said.
"It's not the same as true."
She set down her pen.
"The recording is useful but not decisive on its own.
We need to establish a pattern.
Financial behavior, communication records, any documentation of him withdrawing from family responsibilities before the vacation."
"He stopped coming to the prenatal appointments," I said.
"After the first trimester."
"Do you have records?"
"The clinic does."
"Good." She picked up her pen again.
"What about finances?
Joint accounts?"
"He moved a significant amount into a personal account about two months ago.
I noticed but he said it was for a work expense reimbursement he was expecting."
Patricia looked up.
"How much?"
I told her.
She wrote it down without reacting, but her pen pressed a little harder.
"That may constitute dissipation of marital assets," she said.
"Depending on where it went."
"I have the transfer confirmation," I said.
"He left the bank notification email open on the shared laptop."
Patricia set her pen down again and looked at me directly.
"You were very thorough."
"I had six days alone and a lot of fear," I said.
"Fear makes you thorough."
She almost smiled.
Carol came in from the hallway.
She had slept in the guest room and had been up before any of us, had already fed both girls and started a load of laundry without being asked.
"Gerald Fitch," she said, sitting down.
She had heard us from the hall.
"I know that name."
Patricia and I both looked at her.
"Trevor mentioned him about four months ago," Carol said.
"Said he was a friend of a colleague.
Said he'd had lunch with him." She paused.
"I thought it was odd at the time.
Trevor doesn't usually mention lawyers socially."
Patricia wrote something down.
"Four months ago."
"He was planning this for at least four months," I said.
The kitchen was quiet.
"There's something else," Carol said.
She reached into the pocket of her robe and set a folded piece of paper on the table.
"I found this in the guest room.
In the lining of Trevor's suitcase.
I wasn't searching — the lining was torn and it was sticking out."
Patricia unfolded it carefully.
It was a handwritten list.
Property addresses.
Account numbers.
A name I didn't recognize beside one of the figures.
And at the bottom, in Trevor's handwriting: *D.M.
— after finalization.*
D.M.
Dana Marsh.
"He was already dividing things up," I said.
"Before he even told you he was leaving," Patricia said.
My phone rang.
I looked at the screen.
Trevor.
I answered and put it on speaker without saying anything.
"I need to come by and get some things," he said.
"Personal items.
Clothes."
"Arrange it through Patricia," I said.
A pause.
"I'd rather not make this more formal than it needs to be."
"You made a list of assets to transfer to your girlfriend before you told me you were leaving," I said.
"It's already formal, Trevor."
Silence.
"How did you—" He stopped himself.
"Patricia will be in touch with Gerald Fitch," I said.
"Please don't come to the house without prior arrangement."
I ended the call.
Carol was looking at the paper on the table.
At the initials at the bottom.
"I want to testify," she said quietly.
"If it comes to that.
I want to be on record."
Patricia looked at her.
"You understand what that means.
Testifying against your own son."
"I understand what he did," Carol said.
"And I understand what she's going to need." She nodded toward me.
"Those are the only two things that matter to me right now."
I looked down at my hands.
Three days out of surgery.
Stitches still pulling when I moved wrong.
Two daughters asleep in the next room.
I had not cried yet.
Not once.
Not in the hospital, not when I came home, not last night.
I didn't know if that was strength or if it was something I would have to pay for later.
My phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number.
*You should ask Trevor who else knew.
You might be surprised.*
I stared at the screen.
"Patricia," I said.
She looked up.
I turned the phone toward her.
Her expression didn't change, but she reached for her notepad.
May you like
"Don't respond," she said.
"And don't delete it."
