Chapter 6: The Meeting Marcus Asked For
We met four days later at a small hotel bar in the city, neutral ground that Marcus had chosen.
He was already seated when I arrived, a glass of water in front of him, untouched.
He stood when he saw me and pulled out my chair.
The courtesy was instinctive and unperformed.
"Thank you for coming," he said.
"Of course."
The bar was quiet on a Tuesday afternoon.
Two businessmen at the far end.
A woman working on a laptop near the window.
No one paying attention to us.
"The wedding didn't proceed," he said.
"After we spoke at the vineyard, Olivia and I had an argument that — that made it clear we couldn't stand at an altar that same afternoon." He paused.
"We haven't spoken since Friday."
"I'm sorry," I said.
And I was, in the way you can be sorry for something that was also necessary.
"She told me her version of events," he said.
"On the way back to the hotel.
She said you had become controlling after her father's death.
That you had attached financial strings to your relationship.
That the withdrawal of the wedding funding was something you had threatened before, whenever you didn't get your way."
I looked at him steadily.
"Is that your experience of her?" he asked.
"Or is it mine?"
"You've known her longer than I have," I said.
"You tell me."
His jaw moved.
"She's never asked me for money directly.
There was one conversation, early on, about a business venture.
I told her I didn't mix personal relationships with investment decisions.
That was the end of it." He paused.
"Or I thought it was."
I reached into my bag and set the brown envelope on the table between us.
"This contains my bank transfer records for forty thousand pounds, sent to Olivia's account twenty-two months ago.
Two text messages from her confirming receipt.
A voicemail referencing the investment by name.
And a letter from a solicitor I consulted in January."
Marcus looked at the envelope.
He didn't reach for it immediately.
"She told you it was for a business venture of mine," he said slowly.
"She said you were embarrassed about involving family and preferred she handle it quietly on your behalf."
Something moved across his face.
He picked up the envelope.
Opened it.
Read the bank record first.
Then the solicitor's letter.
Then, more carefully, the printed text messages.
He listened to the voicemail on his phone, holding it close.
Olivia's voice came through, small and tinny.
*The investment Marcus mentioned — yes, I have it, everything's fine.*
He set his phone down.
"There is no investment," he said.
"There was never any investment.
Whatever she told you, she used my name without my knowledge." He looked at me.
"Mrs.
Hayes.
I don't know where that money went."
"Neither do I," I said.
"That's part of the problem."
"You should have pursued this legally."
"She's my daughter."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I understand that.
But —" He stopped.
"I'm going to be honest with you.
What she did with the guest list, lying to me about why you weren't there — I could have worked through that.
People do strange things under pressure.
But this." He touched the envelope.
"Using my name.
Taking money from you by pretending to speak for me.
That's not a moment of pressure.
That's a choice she made and then made again every time you asked for documentation."
"Yes," I said.
"Do you know what you want to do about it?"
"I want my daughter back," I said.
"That's what I've always wanted.
But I think I've been wrong about what that means.
I've been trying to get her back by letting things go.
By accepting less." I looked at my hands on the table.
"I don't think that's working."
Marcus folded the envelope carefully and set it in front of me.
"Keep this safe.
Whatever you decide, you need this." He paused.
"I'd like to help.
If that's something you'd accept."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because she did this in my name." His voice was quiet but without any softness in it.
"And because my mother has been texting me since Saturday morning making very clear that Eleanor Hayes is not someone to be written off." A brief, exhausted almost-smile.
"My mother is not wrong very often."
"No," I said.
"I don't suppose she is."
"There's something else," he said.
He reached into his jacket pocket and set a piece of paper on the table.
A bank statement.
He had circled a line near the bottom.
A transfer.
Date: twenty-one months ago.
Amount: forty thousand pounds.
Recipient account: a name I didn't recognise.
"I found this in a joint account we opened last year.
She moved the history into shared access when we set it up.
I don't think she realised I could see the transaction history."
I looked at the circled line.
"She transferred it somewhere else," I said.
"The same week she received it from you." He looked at me directly.
"I don't know where it went.
But I know someone who can find out."
My phone was in my bag.
I thought about the solicitor's letter.
May you like
About the three months I had spent not using it.
"Tell me who," I said.
