Chapter 5: The Call I Almost Didn't Answer
I stood in the driveway with Emma's hand in mine and looked at the unknown number.
Chicago area code.
No name.
No prior calls.
Emma looked up at me.
"Who is it?"
"I don't know." I answered it.
"Hello?"
A woman's voice.
Steady and professional.
"Is this the wife of Michael Hargrove?"
Something tightened in my chest.
"Who is this?"
"My name is Patricia Osei.
I'm a family law attorney.
I was given your number by Lauren Calloway.
She asked me to reach out to you tonight."
I looked back at the house.
The kitchen light was still on.
Michael's shape moved past the window.
"Why would my sister give you my number?"
"She came to see me three weeks ago.
She was concerned about some financial matters related to your husband's accounts.
She asked me to hold the information until she gave me clearance to contact you directly." A brief pause.
"She sent me a message about forty minutes ago.
She said tonight was the night."
The cold was sharp against my face.
Emma pressed closer to my side.
"What financial matters?" I asked.
"Mrs.
Hargrove, I'd prefer to go through this in person.
But given the circumstances, I can tell you the broad outline now if you'd like."
"Tell me."
"Your husband has a second account.
It was opened approximately sixteen months ago under a business name — Hargrove Consulting LLC.
It has received regular transfers from your joint account.
Forty-three transfers over fourteen months, ranging from eight hundred to three thousand dollars each."
I did not move.
"The total transferred out of your joint account is just over sixty-two thousand dollars."
Emma said, "Mommy, you're squeezing too hard."
I loosened my grip.
"I'm sorry, baby." To the phone: "He told me the Thursday night appointments were therapy."
"They may have been.
I can only speak to the financial record." Another pause.
"Mrs.
Hargrove, your sister has been gathering this information for three weeks.
She came to me because she felt she owed you something she couldn't give you directly.
She thought this was the closest she could get."
I stared at the kitchen window.
Sixty-two thousand dollars.
Sixteen months.
A business account I had never heard of.
"I need to put my daughter in the car," I said.
"Can I call you back in five minutes?"
"Of course.
I'll be available all evening."
I ended the call.
I walked Emma to the car, buckled her in, turned the heat on, and handed her my phone with a cartoon already queued up.
"Five minutes," I told her.
"Okay." She was already watching the screen.
I walked back toward the house.
Not to the front door.
To the kitchen window.
Michael was inside.
On his phone.
Pacing.
I couldn't hear the words.
But I could see his face.
He was not calling a therapist.
He was not calling a friend.
The expression on his face was one I had seen before — focused, controlled, strategic — the face he wore in business meetings when something was going wrong and he was working out how to contain it.
He ended the call.
Stood still for a moment.
Then he went to the counter and opened his laptop.
I watched him type something.
Pull up what looked like a banking page.
Stare at it.
Then he closed the laptop and stood with both hands pressed flat against the counter, his head down.
I walked back to my car.
I called Patricia Osei back.
May you like
"I'm ready," I said.
"Tell me everything."
