Chapter 8: One Last Conversation
Patricia Soames had a voice like someone who had heard everything and was no longer surprised by any of it.
"Renata called me this morning," she said.
"I've been waiting for your call."
I was sitting in Carol's car in the parking lot outside the coffee shop.
Carol was leaning against the hood, giving me space.
"How strong is the case?" I said.
"With the bank documents, the photo, the transaction history, and the emails Renata has — very strong.
The emails are the piece that changes this from a messy divorce to potential fraud exposure." A pause.
"I want to be clear with you.
Pursuing the fraud angle is your choice.
It means a longer process.
It means Marcus will lawyer up hard and it will get uncomfortable."
"What's the alternative?"
"A divorce settlement that uses the financial evidence to ensure you receive a fair share of the hidden assets.
Quicker.
Less public.
Still significant."
"And if I want both?"
A short silence.
Then: "Then we document everything carefully and we let him make the first mistake.
Which, in my experience, men in his position almost always do."
"What kind of mistake?"
"He'll try to move the money.
Now that he knows you know about the Riverside account, he'll panic.
If he transfers funds after you've formally notified him of legal proceedings, that's a separate problem for him entirely."
I looked through the windshield at the ordinary Tuesday street.
People walking dogs.
A delivery van double-parked.
"How quickly can we file?" I said.
"I can have paperwork ready by Thursday.
But Danielle — before we file, I'd recommend one conversation with Marcus.
In person.
Without lawyers.
Let him think he still has time to manage this."
"Why?"
"Because people say things when they think they're still in control.
And right now, you're the only one in this situation who knows the full picture."
I understood what she meant.
"You want him to incriminate himself."
"I want you to have every advantage available to you." Another pause.
"Can you do that?
Go home and have a calm conversation, knowing what you know?"
I thought about it honestly.
"Yes," I said.
"I think I can."
"Good.
Call me tomorrow morning.
We'll go through the documents together."
I ended the call and got out of the car.
Carol straightened up from the hood.
"Well?" she said.
"Thursday," I said.
"But first I need to go home."
She drove me back.
She offered to come in.
I told her no — that this part I needed to do alone.
She held my hand for a moment in the driveway, then let me go.
Marcus was in the living room.
He'd changed his shirt since the morning, which struck me as a strange detail to notice.
He stood up when I came in.
"I didn't think you'd come back tonight," he said.
"I told you I would."
He looked at me carefully.
Whatever he was searching for in my face, I didn't give it to him.
"Sit down," I said.
He sat.
I sat across from him, the same way I'd sat across from Pauline that afternoon.
"I want to understand something," I said.
"Not for the lawyers.
Just for me." I kept my voice even.
"Did you ever intend to tell me?
At any point in the last eighteen months — did you ever come close to sitting down and telling me the truth?"
He was quiet for a long moment.
"I kept thinking I'd find a way to fix it first."
"Fix what?"
"Everything.
The money.
Sasha.
All of it.
I thought if I could just get things back to a certain point, I could—" He stopped.
"You could what?
Put the money back and pretend it never happened?"
"I know how that sounds."
"Do you?" I looked at him.
"Because what I'm hearing is that your plan was to deceive me indefinitely, and only come clean if you ran out of other options."
He didn't deny it.
"Was there ever a version of this where you chose me?" I said.
"Chose the marriage?
Or was I always just the thing you were managing around?"
His eyes went to the floor.
That was its own answer.
I stood up.
"I'm going to stay in the guest room tonight.
Tomorrow I have some calls to make."
"Danielle—"
"I'm not angry right now, Marcus.
I want you to understand that." I picked up my bag from the chair.
"I'm just finished."
I walked to the hallway.
His voice came after me, quieter than I'd heard it all day.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know that doesn't help.
But I am."
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
I didn't turn around.
"I know you are," I said.
"But sorry is what you feel.
What you did is something else."
I went upstairs.
I closed the guest room door behind me.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the dark for a while, not crying, not thinking in any organized way.
Just sitting with the weight of the day.
Then I picked up my phone and sent one message to the unknown number — to Sasha, I was almost certain now.
*Thank you for the video.
I know it wasn't easy.*
The reply came after a few minutes.
*I should have sent it sooner.
I'm sorry I didn't.*
I set the phone on the nightstand.
Outside the window, the street was quiet.
Marcus's car was still in the driveway.
Someone had removed the lingerie at some point during the day.
The car looked ordinary now.
Just a car.
I lay down without changing clothes and stared at the ceiling.
May you like
Thursday, Patricia had said.
Thursday.
