Chapter 7: The Money
Patricia read the email chain twice without speaking.
Then she set it down on her kitchen table — we were at her office now, the girls with Carol and my mom — and looked at me over the top of her reading glasses.
"He paid Fitch before he filed anything," she said.
"Before he told me he was leaving," I said.
"Before the vacation." She tapped the printout.
"This transfer was dated nine weeks ago."
Nine weeks ago I had been thirty-one weeks pregnant.
I had been having trouble sleeping because of the pressure on my ribs.
Trevor had been bringing me tea at night and asking if I needed anything.
"What does it mean legally?" I said.
"It means the retainer was paid from marital funds," Patricia said.
"Which means he used shared money to fund legal strategy against you, before you had any knowledge a legal proceeding was being planned." She paused.
"That is a significant problem for him."
"Can we prove the transfer was for Fitch specifically?"
"The email chain shows the account number.
I can cross-reference it with Fitch's firm's known accounts through the bar association's public records.
It won't be instant, but it's traceable."
She picked up her pen.
"I'm also going to request full financial disclosure as part of the separation proceedings.
Every account, every transfer, every asset.
If he moved money to Dana Marsh as well, it will surface."
"He had her name on that list," I said.
"The one from the suitcase."
"I haven't forgotten." Patricia made a note.
"I want to file a motion this week to freeze the joint accounts pending full disclosure.
Given the documented transfer and the handwritten list, I believe we have sufficient grounds."
I nodded.
"There's something else I need to tell you," Patricia said.
She set her pen down.
"Gerald Fitch called me this morning."
I looked at her.
"He was cordial," she said.
"He said Trevor wants to propose a settlement.
Informal.
Before anything goes to a judge."
"What kind of settlement?"
"He didn't give details.
He said Trevor wants to meet with you directly.
Without attorneys present."
"No," I said.
"That was my advice as well," Patricia said.
"But I want you to understand what it likely means.
He's worried.
The recording, Patrice's statement, the financial transfer — he knows the picture is not favorable.
A direct meeting is an attempt to get you to agree to something before you understand the full scope of what you're entitled to."
"Or to say something he can use," I said.
"Also possible." She looked at me steadily.
"You've been very clear-headed through all of this.
I want you to stay that way."
I drove home in the late afternoon.
The light was flat and gray.
I sat in the car for a minute before going inside.
My phone rang.
Trevor.
I answered.
"Patricia said you won't meet with me," he said.
He didn't sound angry.
He sounded tired.
"That's right," I said.
"I just want to talk.
Without all the — without it being a legal thing."
"It is a legal thing, Trevor."
"I know I hurt you," he said.
"I know what I did was wrong.
But I'm still their father.
I have rights."
"Nobody is disputing that you're their father," I said.
"Patricia will be in contact with Gerald Fitch about a visitation schedule."
"I don't want a visitation schedule.
I want to come home."
I was quiet.
"I made a mistake," he said.
"Dana — it's over.
I ended it.
I just want to come home and be their father and try to fix this."
I looked through the windshield at the front door of my house.
"Where is she now?" I said.
"Dana."
A pause.
"I don't know.
I ended it."
"When?"
"The day I came home and saw Patricia there."
"So the day you got caught," I said.
He didn't answer.
"Trevor," I said.
"You paid your lawyer nine weeks ago.
You made a list of assets to transfer to her.
You told her to be patient.
You told a colleague the timing had to be right so it wouldn't look bad." I paused.
"That's not a mistake.
That's a plan."
The line was silent for a long time.
"I'll be in contact through Patricia," I said.
And I ended the call.
Inside, Carol was sitting in the armchair with one daughter on her chest, asleep.
My mom was at the stove.
The kitchen smelled like something warm.
Carol looked up when I came in.
"He called me too," she said.
"About an hour ago."
I stopped.
"What did he say?"
"He said he wanted me to talk to you.
To help him come home." She looked down at the baby on her chest.
"I told him I was already home."
She said it simply, without drama.
But it landed somewhere deep.
I sat down on the couch.
My mom brought me a cup of tea without being asked.
I held it with both hands and looked at my daughter sleeping on her grandmother's chest.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from an unknown number — different from the first one, but the same untraceable type.
May you like
*He didn't end it.
She's three months along.*
