Chapter 10: Friday
Robert's signed statement arrived at Grace's office at 9:17 a.m.
on Friday.
Grace called me while I was at work.
I stepped into the hallway to take it.
"It's complete," she said.
"He's acknowledged the full restructuring timeline, the pre-settlement transfers, and his role in introducing Chloe to David as part of what he describes as a business decision." A pause.
"His words, not mine."
"And the restitution figure?"
"Agreed.
With interest.
We'll have the transfer confirmed by end of next week."
I looked through the glass door at my colleagues inside, going about their morning.
"Grace."
"Yes?"
"Is it done?"
"The civil matter, yes.
The financial crimes investigation continues, but that's no longer your case to carry." She paused.
"Sandra.
It's done."
I thanked her.
I went back into the meeting.
I didn't tell anyone in that room what had just happened.
I sat down, opened my notebook, and listened to a conversation about quarterly figures.
My pen moved.
My face was calm.
Inside I was somewhere else entirely.
I was in an auditorium.
I was standing near an exit sign.
I was watching my son fold a piece of paper and set it on a stand.
Rachel Marsh met me for coffee the following Tuesday.
She was younger than I expected.
Early forties, with careful eyes and a way of holding her coffee cup with both hands.
"I wasn't sure you'd want to meet," she said.
"I'm glad you reached out," I said.
"I mean that."
"I tried other ways first." She looked at the table.
"Nobody wanted to touch it."
"I know.
Grace told me."
"I kept thinking—if I could just find the right person.
Someone with standing.
Someone he'd actually hurt." She looked up.
"I'm sorry it had to be you."
"Don't be," I said.
"I'm glad it was someone who could do something about it."
She smiled.
Small and tired and real.
"Your son," she said.
"I saw the video someone posted from the graduation.
He was—" She shook her head.
"He's something."
"He is," I said.
We talked for an hour.
She told me about the fourteen months since she was let go.
The journalist who backed out.
The regulatory complaint that went nowhere.
The way she had started to wonder if she'd imagined the whole thing.
"You didn't imagine it," I said.
"No," she said.
"I didn't."
When we said goodbye outside the coffee shop, she hugged me briefly, the way people do when they've been through something together that they don't have a name for yet.
I walked to my car.
I sat for a moment before starting the engine.
David had called twice in the past week.
I hadn't answered.
I wasn't ready for that conversation and I didn't know if I ever would be.
Some things don't need to be resolved.
Some doors can stay closed without anyone being wrong about it.
Chloe I hadn't heard from at all.
Patricia had sent a card.
Handwritten, three sentences.
*I should have spoken sooner.
I'm proud of Michael.
I hope you're well, Sandra.* I had put it on the windowsill in the kitchen where I could see it in the mornings.
I started the car.
On the way home I stopped at the grocery store.
I bought things for a real dinner, the kind I hadn't made in a while.
Something that required more than one pot and actual attention.
Michael was coming over on Sunday.
I thought I'd make the pasta he liked.
The one that took an hour and made the whole house smell like garlic and something warm.
I thought about him at that podium.
The way he had folded that speech.
The way his voice hadn't shaken once.
Eighteen years of double shifts.
Every single one of them had been worth it.
I pulled into my driveway and sat for a moment with the engine off.
The neighbor's porch light was already on.
The cat was on the lawn again.
I got out of the car, took my groceries inside, and started cooking.
---
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