Chapter 6: The Third Wife
Patricia Welles had an office on the second floor of a brick building on Mamaroneck Avenue in White Plains.
Her waiting room had no magazines, just a single framed print of a quote I didn't stop to read, and two chairs that meant business.
She was a small woman with silver-streaked hair and reading glasses she wore on a chain.
She shook my hand and looked at my cheek without commenting on it, which I appreciated, and she gestured to the chair across from her desk.
"Your father speaks highly of you," she said.
"He's biased."
"He's also very thorough." She opened a folder.
"I've spoken with him twice this morning.
I've also spoken with Diane.
She's agreed to provide a sworn statement."
I sat up slightly.
"She said she had a good life now.
I didn't want to—"
"She offered," Patricia said.
"When your father's office contacted me, I called Diane as a courtesy.
She called back within the hour." She looked at me over her glasses.
"She said, and I'm quoting her directly: 'I should have fought harder.
I'm not going to let her fight alone.'"
I looked at the desk for a moment.
"There's something else," Patricia said.
She turned a page.
"I did some preliminary research this morning.
Julian Ashworth was married twice before you."
The room went very quiet.
"Twice," I said.
"Yes.
Diane was the second wife.
Before Diane, there was a woman named Serena Cole.
They were married for eleven months.
The divorce was finalized seven years ago." She looked up.
"I haven't been able to reach Serena yet.
But the divorce record is public.
And the grounds listed are irreconcilable differences, which in this county, at that time, was often used as a clean exit when the real grounds were more complicated."
Two women before me.
Both gone within fourteen months.
"Does my father know about Serena?"
"I told him twenty minutes ago."
I thought about the wedding.
The Plaza Hotel.
The white lilies.
The tears.
The cracked voice saying *Clara, you are my sanctuary.*
How many times had he practiced that sentence?
"What do we do with this?" I asked.
"Right now, we document everything and we build the picture." Patricia set her pen down.
"Julian's attorney, Richard Hale, will almost certainly try to frame this as an isolated incident.
A bad morning.
A marriage under stress.
He'll argue that you provoked a reaction and then escalated it by destroying property in the family home." She said it without inflection, the way you describe a strategy you've seen before.
"We counter that with pattern.
Diane's statement.
The police report.
The restraining order filing.
The medical record from this morning.
And if we can reach Serena, her account as well."
"What about Victoria?"
Patricia's expression didn't change, but something behind it did.
"Victoria is more complicated.
She has no direct legal exposure for what happened this morning.
She was a witness, not a participant." A pause.
"But she was also the person who collected Diane's letters and authorized Hale to use them as a threat.
That speaks to intent.
To coordination." She picked up her pen again.
"I want to depose her."
"Will she agree?"
"No.
Which means we'll have to compel her." She looked at me steadily.
"This is going to take time, Clara.
And it's going to be uncomfortable.
Julian and his family will push back hard.
Hale is expensive and he's effective and he will try to make you look like the aggressor." She paused.
"But you have a medical record from this morning, a corroborating witness with a signed police report, and a pattern that goes back at least seven years.
That is a strong position."
I nodded.
"One more thing," she said.
She slid a single sheet across the desk.
"I had my paralegal pull the property records on the Westchester house this morning.
It's held in a family trust.
Arthur and Victoria are co-trustees." She tapped the page.
"Julian is listed as a beneficiary.
But he has no direct ownership."
I looked at the page.
"He told me his family was wealthy," I said.
"They are.
But Julian personally has very limited independent assets." She looked at me.
"The AmEx.
The apartment.
The car.
How much of that was yours?"
"All of it," I said quietly.
Patricia nodded once, slowly.
"Then he needed this marriage," she said.
"And he needed you not to leave it."
I drove home to Tribeca in silence.
Not my parents' home.
My apartment.
My name on the lease.
My security deposit.
My key in the lock.
I sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the weighted blanket folded at the foot of it.
Then I picked up my phone and called Diane.
She answered on the first ring.
"Patricia told me you offered to give a statement," I said.
"Yes."
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." A pause.
"Did she tell you about Serena?"
"Yes."
"I didn't know about Serena until two years after my divorce," Diane said.
"When I found out, I felt sick.
Because I kept thinking — if I had fought harder, if I hadn't let Hale scare me off, maybe the next woman would have known." Her voice was steady but not easy.
"You're the next woman, Clara.
Except you didn't wait.
You walked out the same morning."
I didn't say anything.
"I'm giving the statement," she said.
"Don't try to talk me out of it."
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," she said back.
After I hung up, I sat in the quiet apartment for a long time.
Then my phone rang.
A number I didn't know.
A 212 area code.
I answered it.
"Is this Clara Navarro?" A woman's voice.
Careful.
A little uncertain.
"Yes."
A long pause.
May you like
"My name is Serena Cole," she said.
"I think we need to talk."
