Chapter 7: Diane's Offer
"I want to meet," Diane said.
"Just the two of us.
No Michael."
"Why."
"Because I have something to tell you that my son doesn't know I'm going to tell you."
I was parked in front of a dry cleaner on Halsted.
A woman was walking out with a row of plastic-wrapped dresses over her shoulder.
I watched her load them into her trunk.
"You sl\*pped me yesterday," I said.
"I know."
"And now you want to meet."
"Yes."
"Why should I."
A pause.
"Because what I know will help you.
And because I owe you something for yesterday.
I'm not — I don't apologize easily.
But I'm asking you to come."
I almost said no.
I had a full day of reasons to say no.
"One hour," I said.
"Public place.
You choose."
She chose a diner on the north side.
Booths with high backs.
Quiet for a Tuesday morning.
She was already there when I arrived, sitting with her hands around a coffee cup, no coat on the back of the chair.
She had come prepared to stay.
I sat across from her.
Didn't take off my coat.
"Talk," I said.
Diane looked older than she had the night before.
The satisfaction was gone from her face.
What was left looked closer to tired.
"Michael didn't start this," she said.
"I did."
I waited.
"Lauren came to me.
Eight months ago.
She told me she and Michael had feelings for each other and she didn't know what to do.
She asked me — she actually came to me and asked me — whether she should tell you."
My jaw tightened.
"And you told her not to."
"I told her to give it time.
I told her that Michael's marriage was—" She stopped.
Looked at her coffee.
"I told her things that weren't true.
That he'd been unhappy.
That you two weren't suited.
That sometimes these things resolve themselves."
"You encouraged her."
"I didn't discourage her.
Which is the same thing." She looked up.
"I wanted Michael to end up with someone from — someone I understood.
You were always very capable.
Very self-sufficient.
I didn't think you needed him the way Lauren did."
"So you decided for us."
"I made it easier for something wrong to keep going.
Yes."
The waitress came.
I shook my head.
She left.
"Why are you telling me this now?" I said.
"Because I found out this morning what he did with the money." Diane's hands tightened around the cup.
"I didn't know about the account.
He didn't tell me.
When I found out, I—" She pressed her lips together.
"He's my son.
But what he did to you financially — that wasn't a mistake.
That was a plan."
"I know."
"I have records," she said.
"From before August.
He came to me in June and asked me to hold some cash for him.
I didn't ask questions.
I should have." She opened her purse and took out an envelope.
Set it on the table between us.
"There's eleven thousand dollars in there.
He gave it to me in two installments.
I wrote down the dates when he gave them to me.
It's all in there."
I looked at the envelope.
I didn't touch it.
"Why," I said.
"Why give this to me."
"Because he is my son and I love him and he is wrong." She said it like those things were not a contradiction.
"And because you caught my wrist last night instead of letting me hjt you a second time, and I have been thinking about that ever since."
I picked up the envelope.
Put it in my bag next to the documents from the filing cabinet.
"This goes to my attorney," I said.
"I know."
"It won't make us friends."
"I'm not asking for that."
I stood up.
She looked up at me from the booth.
In the diner light she looked like a woman who had spent a long time being certain about things and was now sitting with the cost of that.
"You should have let her tell me," I said.
"Eight months ago.
You should have stayed out of it and let her tell me."
"Yes," Diane said.
"I should have."
I left her there with her coffee.
Outside, the air was sharp and cold.
I stood on the sidewalk and checked my phone.
A text from Patricia asking if I could come back to sign the finalized motion.
I texted back: *On my way.
And I have more documents.*
Then I walked to my car, and for the first time since Sunday dinner, I felt the shape of what was coming — not just the loss of it, but the ground underneath.
Solid.
Mine.
My phone buzzed one more time before I reached the car.
Michael.
Not a text this time.
A voicemail.
I pressed play.
His voice was different.
Quieter.
And what he said at the end of the message — four words — told me he had just found out that his mother had met with me.
May you like
The next move was his.
And it was not going to be a good one.
