Chapter 7 - Three Pages
Karen sent it on a Saturday morning with one line above it: Read carefully. Especially page two.
I read it at my kitchen table with the coffee going cold next to me.
Derek had written it himself. No lawyer's name at the bottom, no letterhead. Three pages, single-spaced, and by the end of the first paragraph he'd laid out his whole position: all of it was false, the women were running a coordinated smear campaign against him, and he would sue anyone who put these "fabrications" into print.
Page one was denial. Loud, detailed denial. He named Rachel and called their divorce "contentious and manipulative." He called Eleanor "a woman who became fixated after a brief, casual acquaintance." He didn't name me, but he mentioned "a recent acquaintance with whom I shared a single dinner and who has clearly been influenced by others."
Page two was where Karen told us to look.
Defending himself on the transfer, Derek had written: The account in question was jointly held, and I retained legal access to it as of the date cited. Any action I took regarding that account was within my rights as a co-holder and was intended to recover funds owed to me under the settlement.
I read it twice.
He'd just confirmed, in writing, that he'd attempted the transfer. He hadn't denied it. He'd justified it.
I called Rachel.
"I saw it," she said, before I finished her name. "He admitted it."
"He admitted it while trying to explain it away. Yes." A pause. "The settlement he's talking about doesn't exist. There was nothing owed to him. Our divorce was final. Everything was split. There's nothing left to recover."
"Do you have proof of that?"
"My divorce attorney has all of it. I called her this morning." Another pause. "She used the word 'exposure.' As in, what he just handed himself."
I thought about the three pages. The confidence in them. The way he'd written it like he was the wronged party and the facts were just a matter of spin.
"He thought he could write his way out of it," I said.
"He always thinks that," Rachel said. "He's very good with words when he's convinced he's the smartest one in the room."
I called Eleanor next. She'd already spoken to Karen.
"She's putting the letter in the piece," Eleanor said. "He gave permission by sending it to a journalist. She's going to quote page two word for word."
"He handed it to her."
"He handed it to her," Eleanor agreed. "Karen says she's seen it before. People who've never actually been held to account tend to believe they can talk through anything. They're not used to somebody keeping a record."
I thought about the folder. The seven names. The bank statements with the yellow lines. A year of quiet, patient work.
"What happens now?" I asked.
"Karen files Monday. It runs Wednesday or Thursday, depending on the editors." Eleanor's voice was even. "She's also forwarded his letter to a contact she has in a financial crimes unit. Not because it guarantees anything. But the admission about the account access is worth having on file."
"And Derek?"
"He still doesn't know what he gave her."
I sat with that. "Eleanor. How are you doing? Not the case. Just — you."
A longer pause than I expected.
"I'm tired," she said. "I've been carrying this for a year. I'm ready to set it down." Her voice held steady, but something in it went soft. "I keep thinking — if Rachel hadn't walked into that restaurant. If you'd just paid and gone home and never known any of it. He'd have kept right on going. Another month, another woman, another line on the list."
"But she did walk in," I said.
"She did." A small sound, almost a laugh. "Because she saw his car."
"Because she saw his car."
We stayed on the line another moment without talking. Outside my window the Saturday was doing what Saturdays do — slow light, a neighbor's dog, a radio somewhere down the block.
"Wednesday or Thursday," I said.
"Wednesday or Thursday," Eleanor said. "And then it's done."
May you like
She was almost right.
It ran Thursday. And Derek, it turned out, had one move left.
