Chapter 8: What Nathan Called Incomplete
Nathan's lawyer contacted Patricia two days later with an offer.
He was proposing a private settlement.
Nathan would repay the forty-eight thousand dollars from his personal accounts over eighteen months.
In exchange, I would withdraw cooperation from the financial crimes referral and agree to a standard no-fault divorce without further financial claims against him.
Patricia read the letter to me over the phone.
"He wants me to let him pay it back slowly," I said, "and give up the house."
"The house is not explicitly mentioned in this letter," she said.
"But a standard no-fault filing with no further financial claims would effectively mean you don't pursue your equity position."
"The house I bought.
The mortgage I've paid for twelve years."
"Yes."
"What does his lawyer think the word *incomplete* means in that text?"
"I suspect," Patricia said, "that Nathan has something he believes is leverage.
Something he thinks changes the calculation."
"What could he possibly have?"
"That's what I'd like to know before Thursday."
Thursday was the meeting Nathan's lawyer had requested.
A formal sit-down at Patricia's office.
I spent two days thinking about what *incomplete* might mean.
I went through every document I could find.
Bank records.
Tax returns.
Property papers.
The original mortgage agreement.
I found nothing unexpected.
Everything confirmed what I already knew: I had built and funded our life, and he had quietly redirected a portion of it.
On Wednesday evening, Margaret called.
"I need to tell you something," she said.
"Before tomorrow."
I sat down.
"Tell me."
"When Nathan called me confused — when he told you I'd been confused for months — it wasn't only to discredit what I'd told you." She paused.
"He's been trying to have me assessed.
Formally.
He spoke to my doctor without my knowledge.
He told him I had been showing signs of cognitive decline.
He wanted something in writing."
The cold feeling came back.
"Why?"
"Because I'm the one who first saw the statements.
And because —" She stopped.
"Because my house, Emily.
The one I've lived in for forty years.
Nathan is listed as the beneficiary in my will.
He's been making arrangements."
"What kind of arrangements?"
"He spoke to an estate attorney three months ago.
I found out through a friend who works at the firm.
He was asking about expedited probate procedures." Her voice was very steady.
"He wanted to know how quickly assets transfer when the deceased has been formally assessed as having diminished capacity before death."
I couldn't speak for a moment.
"He was setting you up," I said.
"He was preparing the ground," she said.
"In case he needed it."
"Margaret.
You need to call your own lawyer tomorrow.
Not after.
Tomorrow morning, before the meeting."
"I already called her this afternoon," she said.
"I'm changing my will on Friday."
I exhaled.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"I am angry," she said simply.
"But I am not confused."
The meeting the next morning started at ten.
Nathan came in with his lawyer, a man named Gerald Foss who wore his suit like a statement.
Nathan looked composed.
He had slept.
He had prepared.
He sat across from me for the first time since the night of the dinner.
He didn't apologize.
He looked at me with an expression I recognized — the one he used when he believed he still had room to maneuver.
Gerald Foss opened a folder.
"My client wants to resolve this privately and quickly.
He believes the financial issues can be addressed through repayment, and that a cooperative approach serves everyone's interests, including the children."
"The children's interests," Patricia said, "are well served by their mother retaining the home she purchased and paid for."
"The home is in joint title," Gerald said.
"Purchased with my client's sole financial contribution," Patricia replied.
"That is well documented."
Nathan leaned forward slightly.
"Emily.
I know this has been painful.
I made mistakes.
I know that.
But I need you to hear me — there is information you don't have that you need to understand before this goes further."
"What information?" I said.
He glanced at his lawyer.
Gerald gave a small nod.
Nathan reached into the folder and slid a photograph across the table.
It was a man I didn't recognize.
Standing outside a building I didn't recognize.
A date stamp in the corner.
Three years ago.
"Who is this?" I asked.
"That is a man named Aaron Webb," Nathan said.
"He was a project manager at the firm you worked at three years ago.
Before your promotion."
I looked at the photograph again.
Something moved at the edge of my memory.
"You had a professional relationship with him," Nathan said.
His voice stayed even.
"A close one.
Our firm's private investigator documented several meetings."
Patricia's hand came flat to the table.
"Stop."
"Emily," Nathan said, ignoring her, "I'm not trying to hurt you.
I'm trying to show you that this situation is more complicated than —"
"Stop," Patricia said again, louder.
Nathan stopped.
Patricia looked at Gerald Foss.
"You brought fabricated or selectively edited surveillance material into this meeting as leverage against my client in an active legal proceeding.
I want you to consider very carefully what you do next."
Gerald straightened his folder.
He suddenly looked less comfortable in his suit.
"It's not fabricated," Nathan said to me directly.
"Emily, all I'm asking is —"
"Aaron Webb was my project manager," I said.
My voice came out steadier than I expected.
"We had weekly planning meetings.
I have three years of calendared records, company emails, and meeting notes that document every single interaction as professional and work-related.
My company's HR records confirm the same."
I watched Nathan's expression.
The room to maneuver closed by about half.
"If your investigator followed me to work meetings," I said, "then your investigator wasted your money."
Gerald Foss put his hand on Nathan's arm.
Nathan sat back.
"The settlement offer stands," Gerald said to Patricia, with noticeably less confidence than he'd had twenty minutes ago.
"We'll respond in writing by end of week," Patricia said.
"We won't be accepting it."
Nathan looked at me one last time as he stood.
The calculation behind his eyes had not gone away.
But something underneath it had shifted.
He walked out without another word.
Patricia waited until the door closed.
"He has nothing," she said.
"He thought he did."
"People who are cornered reach for anything." She closed her folder.
"The financial crimes unit confirmed this morning that they've opened a formal investigation.
I received the notice an hour before you arrived."
I looked at the photograph still sitting on the table between us.
A work meeting.
Three years ago.
His last card, and it was nothing.
"It's done," I said.
May you like
"Almost," Patricia said.
"Not quite yet."
