Chapter 4: The Woman Named Diane
Patricia Hale's office was on the fourteenth floor of a building downtown, with a view of the lake and a waiting room that smelled like good coffee and quiet money.
She was younger than I expected — mid-forties, dark suit, no jewelry except a thin watch.
She shook my hand and looked at me the way people look at someone they are already taking seriously.
"Sit down, Gwen," she said.
"Tell me everything.
Start from the phone call."
I told her all of it.
The 2:13 call from Toby.
The safe room.
The syringe.
The pastries in the morning.
The search history.
The policies.
The envelope.
Diane Marsh.
Patricia didn't interrupt once.
She took notes in a small leather notebook with a pen that she clicked twice before writing anything.
When I finished, she set the pen down.
"The marriage certificate — do you have it with you?"
I placed it on her desk.
She studied it for a long moment.
"I'm going to need a copy of this.
And I want to speak with Toby directly, with your permission."
"Of course."
"The search history screenshots — are those still accessible on the family account?"
"Toby has them.
He screenshotted everything before Christopher could clear it."
"Good." She folded her hands.
"Gwen, I want to be direct with you.
What you're describing is a pattern.
The prior marriage, the d3ath ruled accidental, the insurance payout, and now the policies on your life — that is not coincidence.
That is method."
I had known that since the bathroom floor.
Hearing it spoken out loud by someone across a desk made it land differently.
"What do I do?" I said.
"For now, you go home.
You behave exactly as you have been — as though you know nothing.
You do not confront him.
You do not change anything in the house.
You do not move money, cancel cards, or alter any document." She picked up the pen again.
"I am going to contact a detective I work with regularly.
His name is Warren Cole.
He has handled insurance fraud and spousal cases for twenty years.
I want him to start pulling the Akron records on Diane Marsh today."
"And the syringe?"
Patricia's expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes sharpened.
"That is the piece that concerns me most.
Do you have any way to know what was in it?"
"No."
"Did he bring anything into the house that morning that he didn't have when he left?"
I thought back.
The pastry bag.
His briefcase.
His jacket, which he'd hung by the door.
"His jacket," I said.
"He hung it on the hook by the front door.
He always takes it upstairs to the closet."
"Is it still there?"
I pulled out my phone and texted Toby: *Check the jacket by the front door.
Don't touch the pockets.
Just tell me if it's still there.*
Three minutes passed.
Patricia poured us both water.
My phone lit up.
*It's there.
There's something in the left inside pocket.
Rectangular.
Like a folded paper.*
Patricia was already reaching for her own phone.
"I'm calling Warren now."
I watched her dial.
Outside the window, the lake was flat and gray and very far below.
"Warren," she said when the line connected.
"I have a new client.
I need you to pull everything on a d3ath in Akron — approximately eleven years ago.
Woman named Diane Marsh.
Ruled accidental." A pause.
"Yes.
Stairs.
Insurance involved." Another pause, longer.
"I know.
That's why I'm calling you first."
She hung up and looked at me.
"He'll have something by tomorrow morning," she said.
"In the meantime, I need you to do one more thing tonight."
"What?"
"Write down everything you remember.
Times, words, exact dialogue — everything from the last seventy-two hours.
Don't type it.
Handwrite it.
Date and sign each page."
I nodded.
"And Gwen." She waited until I met her eyes.
"Don't eat or drink anything he prepares for you.
Not until this is over."
I drove home in silence.
Christopher's car was already in the driveway.
The jacket was still on the hook when I walked through the door.
He was in the kitchen, his back to me, pouring two glasses of wine.
"There you are," he said, turning with a smile.
"Long day?"
"Just errands," I said.
He held out a glass.
I took it.
Set it on the counter behind me while he turned back to the stove.
"I was thinking," he said, "we should take a trip.
Just the two of us.
Somewhere quiet."
"That sounds nice," I said.
He smiled at the stove.
May you like
I looked at the wine glass.
I didn't touch it again.
