Chapter 4: What Eric Was Looking For
I didn't go far that first night.
I had already booked a room at a hotel twenty minutes away — paid in full, under my name, with a card Eric had never known about.
I had opened it eighteen months earlier, after the first time Diane had visited and rearranged my pantry without asking.
I hadn't known then that I would need it for this.
But I had known I might need something.
Claire called at half past eight.
"Eric's attorney made contact this afternoon," she said.
"A man named Phillip Harte.
Do you know him?"
"No."
"He's not a divorce solicitor.
He does civil litigation.
Contested estates, asset disputes, that kind of work."
I sat on the edge of the hotel bed.
"Eric is going to try to challenge the prenup."
"That's my read.
Harte sent a letter requesting disclosure of all financial records from the date of marriage to present.
They're looking for commingled assets — anything that might suggest the property became a shared marital asset over time."
"He paid no mortgage.
He contributed nothing to the maintenance or insurance.
I have three years of bank records that show exactly that."
"I know," Claire said.
"Send them to me tonight if you can.
I want everything documented before they build a narrative."
I spent two hours that night going through files I had kept with the same precision I applied to my work.
Every mortgage payment.
Every utility bill.
Every repair invoice.
All of it in my name, paid from my account, for three years.
Eric had paid for groceries occasionally.
A restaurant dinner.
A weekend away once, which he had mentioned to his family as though it were evidence of his generosity.
I sent everything to Claire before midnight.
The next morning, I drove back to the house to collect the last of my things.
I had timed it for ten o'clock, when I knew Diane took Madison to her weekly appointment.
I wanted one hour in the house without an audience.
I was wrong about the timing.
Diane's car was still in the driveway.
I almost left.
Instead, I went in.
She was sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of tea and a woman I didn't recognize — mid-fifties, sharp eyes, a notepad open in front of her.
Diane looked up without surprise.
"Sit down," she said.
"There's something you should hear."
"I don't think so."
"The woman beside me is a journalist," Diane said.
"She's writing a piece about a financial compliance officer at a multinational firm who used her professional position to structure a property sale in a way that may have concealed marital assets.
I thought you might want to comment before it runs."
The woman with the notepad didn't look at me.
She was writing something.
The room was very quiet.
I set my bag down on the counter.
Slowly.
Then I turned to face Diane directly.
"That's not a journalist," I said.
"A real journalist would have contacted my employer first, not ambushed me in a kitchen.
And what you just described isn't a story.
It's a threat."
Diane's expression didn't change.
"Call it what you like."
"I will." I picked my bag back up.
"I'll call it witness intimidation and attempted extortion, which is exactly what I'll be telling Claire Ashworth in about four minutes."
The woman with the notepad finally looked up.
For the first time since I had walked in, Diane's composure shifted — just slightly, just at the corners of her mouth.
"You won't do anything," she said.
"You're too careful.
Too controlled.
You don't make scenes."
"No," I said.
"I sell houses."
I walked out.
In the car, I called Claire immediately.
"She brought someone to the house," I said.
"Introduced her as a journalist.
Threatened a story about concealed marital assets."
A pause.
"Did you record it?"
My hand tightened on the phone.
I hadn't.
"No," I said.
May you like
"Go back in," Claire said quietly.
"And this time, leave your phone in your pocket."
