Chapter 8: What Delia Knew
Patricia found her through the letting agency.
It took less than forty-eight hours.
Delia Marsh had no reason to hide — she didn't know she was connected to anything that required hiding.
She had a name, a flat, a father who sent money and visited four times a year, and no apparent knowledge of how any of it was structured.
"She agreed to a call," Patricia told me.
"She was cautious at first.
But when I explained who I was and why I was reaching out, she went quiet for a long time and then said yes."
"What did you tell her?"
"That her father's financial arrangements were under legal review.
That she wasn't a target.
That speaking with us might actually protect her."
"Was she angry?"
"She was scared," Patricia said.
"There's a difference."
The call was arranged for Thursday afternoon.
I sat at my desk with Patricia on a separate line, and when Delia's voice came through the speaker it was younger than I had imagined — careful, slightly formal, with a London accent layered over something else.
"Mrs.
Norris," she said.
"I want you to know — I didn't know he was married.
Not at first."
"When did you find out?"
"About a year after he found me.
He told me himself.
He said it was complicated and that he was handling it." A pause.
"I should have asked more questions.
I know that."
"Did he tell you where the money came from?
The flat, the account?"
"He said it was from his business.
An investment fund." Her voice tightened slightly.
"He never mentioned a wife's name on anything."
"Delia," I said, "the account that funds your flat was opened using marital assets.
Money that is legally half mine.
I need you to understand that I'm not pursuing this against you.
But I do need a full picture of what he told you and when."
A long pause.
"He told me," she said slowly, "that if anything ever happened to him, the account would cover me for years.
He made it sound like it was already settled.
Like there was no one who could contest it."
"He told you that explicitly?"
"Yes.
About eight months ago.
Right after—" She stopped.
"Right after what?"
"Right after he had me sign something.
He said it was a formality.
A witness signature on a financial form." Her voice dropped.
"I didn't read it carefully.
I trusted him."
Patricia and I looked at each other across the room.
"Delia," Patricia said carefully, "was there anyone else present when you signed?"
"His mother," Delia said.
"She was visiting that week.
She's the one who brought the form."
The room went very still.
Shirley had flown to London.
Shirley had brought the form.
Shirley had stood in that Kensington flat with her son's hidden daughter and walked her through signing a document that would have transferred $340,000 away from me — and she had done it eight months ago, then come home, moved into my house, rearranged my kitchen, and told me I had finally been given the chance to be the daughter-in-law I was supposed to be.
"Thank you, Delia," I said.
My voice was steady.
"I'll be in touch."
After the call ended, Patricia set her pen down.
"She's a witness," she said.
"She's more than that," I said.
"She's proof that this was coordinated."
"Everett arrives tomorrow."
"I know."
"Do you want to wait until after you've spoken with him?"
I thought about it for exactly three seconds.
"No," I said.
"File the fraud supplemental today.
Include Delia's statement.
Include Shirley's travel records if you can get them."
Patricia was already typing.
I drove home in the dark, and when I walked through the front door, Shirley was in the living room with the television on and a cup of tea going cold on the side table.
She looked up at me.
"Everett lands tomorrow morning," she said.
"I know," I said.
"He wants to talk to you properly.
To explain everything."
"I'm sure he does."
She studied me for a moment.
"You've been to see your attorney again."
"Yes."
Something moved across her face — not fear exactly, but the first real awareness that the ground had shifted further than she had calculated.
"Stella," she said.
May you like
And for the first time, my name in her mouth didn't sound like a mild inconvenience.
"Goodnight, Shirley," I said, and went upstairs.
