Chapter 10: The Conversation I Had Been Afraid Of
He was in the kitchen.
Standing at the counter with a glass of water, not drinking it.
Just holding it.
He looked like he hadn't slept.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
"Meeting with people who are helping me." I set my bag down.
"Where have you been?"
"Driving." He put the glass down.
"Mom.
This has gotten out of hand."
"Yes," I said.
"It has."
"I need you to stop.
The lawyer, the letters — Sloan is—"
"Sit down, Harrison."
He looked at me.
Something in my voice stopped him.
He sat.
I took the folder from my bag and placed it on the table in front of him.
I didn't open it.
I just set it there.
"Before you say anything else," I said, "I need you to read what's in that folder."
"What is it?"
"It's information about your wife.
Information that existed before you married her.
Before she moved into this house."
He looked at the folder and didn't touch it.
"Sloan told me you'd try to turn me against her," he said.
"She said you'd find something, or make something up—"
"Curtis Farwell," I said.
"Allegheny County, Pennsylvania.
Forty-two thousand dollars.
Forged signature on a home equity line."
Harrison went still.
"Alan Pressley.
Ohio.
Eleven thousand dollars.
Joint account."
He stared at me.
"She's done this before," I said.
"To men who were alone and trusted her.
The only difference this time is that she used you to get to me." I kept my voice level.
"I don't believe you knew.
I want to believe that.
But I need you to open that folder and read it, because I am not going to let what happened to those men happen to me.
And I am not going to let you spend the rest of your life married to someone who used you as a tool."
He opened the folder.
I watched his face as he read.
The color left it slowly, like water draining from a glass.
He turned pages.
Stopped.
Turned back.
Read something again.
"The property management company," he said.
His voice was strange.
Flat.
"Registered eight months ago."
"She told me it was for — she said she was thinking about a side business.
Real estate management.
She said it was just an idea."
"It was registered to your address.
My address."
He closed the folder.
For a long moment he didn't speak.
The kitchen was very quiet.
"The study," he said.
"Last night.
She asked me to go out.
Said she needed the house quiet to think." He looked up.
"I came back at two and there was a car I didn't recognize in the drive.
She said it was a friend."
"The car is registered to her company."
His jaw worked.
"Harrison." I sat down across from him.
"The money from the account.
Was it your idea?"
He looked at his hands.
"She said you'd never notice.
She said it was just sitting there.
She said—" He stopped.
"I knew it was wrong.
I told her it was wrong.
But she kept saying you had plenty, that you'd never use it, that we needed it more than—" He pressed both hands flat on the table.
"I knew it was wrong."
"Yes."
"I'm sorry." The words came out rough.
"Mom.
I'm sorry."
I looked at my son.
Thirty-five years old, sitting at the kitchen table where he had eaten breakfast as a child, looking like someone had taken the floor out from under him.
"I know," I said.
"What do I do?"
"You start by telling Patricia everything you know.
Every withdrawal.
Whose idea, when, how.
You cooperate fully." I paused.
"And then you decide what you're going to do about your marriage.
That part is yours.
I can't make it for you."
He nodded slowly.
Upstairs, a door opened.
Sloan's footsteps crossed the floor above us.
Then the stairs.
She appeared in the kitchen doorway and took in the scene — Harrison at the table, the open folder, my face.
Her eyes moved to the folder.
"Harrison," she said.
"Come upstairs."
He didn't move.
"Harrison." Her voice sharpened.
"Now."
"Sit down, Sloan," he said.
She looked at him.
Then at me.
The smoothness was entirely gone now.
"Whatever she's told you—"
"Curtis Farwell," he said.
"Allegheny County."
The name landed like a stone in still water.
Sloan's face did something I had not seen it do before.
It went uncertain.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough.
Then it hardened.
"That was a misunderstanding," she said.
"He was vindictive.
He lied—"
"Alan Pressley," Harrison said.
She stopped.
"How many?" he asked.
"How many before me?"
She looked at him for a long moment.
Then she looked at me, and in that look was something I recognized — the calculation of someone deciding whether a position is still worth holding.
She pulled out a chair and sat down.
"You want to do this," she said quietly.
May you like
"Fine.
Let's do this."
