Chapter 8 - What He Did Next
The piece went live at 9 a.m. on a Thursday.
By noon it had been shared more than four thousand times. By three, Derek had called Rachel six times. She sent every one to voicemail. The last message she forwarded to Karen and her lawyer without listening to it. She told me later she didn't want his voice in her head that day.
I read the article twice. Karen had done exactly what she said she would. His full name. The pattern, laid out across seven women and three years. The transfer attempt, timestamped. His own words from page two, quoted directly. A statement from his former employer confirming only that he was "no longer with the company" and declining further comment — which, in context, said plenty.
At four, my phone rang from a number I didn't know. I picked up.
"You did this." Derek. The smoothness from the restaurant was gone. "You and Rachel and that reporter. You went to a journalist. You had no right."
"Everything in that article is documented," I said. "You confirmed the transfer yourself. In writing."
"That letter was private."
"You sent it to a reporter."
Silence.
"I'm going to lose my apartment," he said. And for one second the calculation dropped completely out of his voice and he just sounded like a man standing at the edge of something. "My landlord already called. He saw the article. He's not renewing my lease."
I didn't say anything.
"I need you to call her," he said. "The journalist. Tell her it was blown out of proportion. Tell her she had the context wrong."
"I'm not going to do that."
"I'm asking you—"
"Derek." I kept my voice level. "You tried to pull money out of Rachel's account while you were sitting across from me waiting for me to pay for your dinner. You did it to Eleanor. You did it to women you'd known for a couple of weeks. You lied about your job, your money, your whole life. And when a reporter asked for your side, you put a confession in writing and mailed it to her." I paused. "I'm not calling anybody."
Another silence. Longer.
"I just needed people to believe in me," he said. "That's all it ever was. I just needed—"
"I know," I said. "I actually believe that part. But that's not what you did."
He hung up.
I sat there with the phone in my hand. Then I texted Rachel: He called me. He's rattled. You okay?
She wrote back within the minute: Fine. My lawyer called. Karen's financial crimes contact — they want the documentation. Formally. Not a promise of anything. But they're looking.
Then a second text: Eleanor's daughter called her today. She'd seen the article. They hadn't spoken in two years. She called to say she was proud of her.
I read that one twice. Then I put the phone face-down on the table and looked out the window for a while.
The next Monday, two more women reached out to Karen. One from a city three hours away. One from an app that operates in four countries. Neither had known the others existed until the article.
Derek didn't call me again.
Three weeks later, Eleanor sent a group message to Rachel and me. Two sentences.
The financial crimes unit has opened a preliminary inquiry. It may go nowhere. But it's open.
Rachel replied with one word: Good.
I started to type the same thing. Then I deleted it and typed something else.
May you like
Eleanor — how's your daughter?
Her reply came an hour later. It was the longest message she'd sent in all the weeks I'd known her.
