Chapter 8 - The Son Diane Was BuyingVanessa Cole was twenty-nine.
Neither did Robert.
By sunrise Thursday, Evergreen Ridge had placed additional security restrictions around Robert, his passport had been reported missing, and Melissa had contacted the appropriate authorities regarding suspected financial exploitation.
Diane arrived at the airport alone.
According to the later report, she made it through check-in before being stopped.
She wasn’t arrested that morning.
Not yet.
But her passport was flagged for further review, and officers questioned her long enough for the flight to leave without her.
She called Nathan seventeen times.
He called me once.
I didn’t answer.
By then, my understanding of our marriage had changed.
At first, I thought Nathan was weak.
Then selfish.
Then financially reckless.
Now I had to consider the possibility that he had helped his mother steal millions of dollars.
There is a peculiar grief in discovering that someone you slept beside for eleven years might be a stranger.
Memories become evidence.
The nights he came home late.
The new watch he claimed was a client gift.
The private calls.
The unexplained resentment whenever I questioned expenses.
Even our arguments changed shape.
I remembered asking why his mother suddenly renovated her kitchen.
“She sold some investments,” he had said.
Maybe she had.
Maybe the investment had been my company.
At noon, the board held another emergency meeting.
This one took fourteen minutes.
Nathan was removed as president pending investigation.
His salary was suspended.
His company credit cards were canceled.
His access badge was deactivated.
He didn’t attend.
At 1:12 p.m., he walked into headquarters anyway.
Security called me.
“He says he owns the building.”
“He does not.”
“He says he’s not leaving.”
“Call his attorney.”
“We did.”
“And?”
“His attorney told him to leave.”
I almost laughed.
“Then follow counsel’s advice.”
Nathan eventually left after forty-three minutes.
Before he did, he sent me a message.
You’re enjoying this.
I stared at it for a long time.
Then, against Melissa’s advice to avoid unnecessary communication, I answered.
No. I am watching the consequences of your choices. There is a difference.
He didn’t reply.
That Friday was Nathan’s first supervised afternoon with Emma.
Not because the court considered him physically dangerous.
The supervision was temporary, intended to reduce conflict and assess how he interacted with her after the birthday incident.
Emma almost refused to go.
“What if Grandma comes?”
“She’s not allowed.”
“What if Dad is mad?”
“Then the supervisor handles it.”
“What if he says you’re bad?”
“He shouldn’t.”
“But what if he does?”
I knelt beside her.
“You never have to choose between loving your father and loving me.”
She studied my face.
“Even if he hates you?”
“He doesn’t get to make that choice for you.”
She hugged me.
When she returned three hours later, she was quiet.
“How was it?”
“Okay.”
I hated hearing my own word from her.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Dad cried.”
I wasn’t prepared for that.
“What did he say?”
“He said he was sorry.”
“To you?”
She nodded.
“That’s good.”
“He said Grandma gets upset because Grandpa never had another boy.”
I felt irritation rise.
“That isn’t your responsibility.”
“I know.”
She picked at a thread on her sleeve.
“Dad asked if I could tell the judge I want to come home.”
My expression changed.
“Did the supervisor hear that?”
“I think so.”
She had.
Melissa obtained the report Monday.
Nathan had been warned immediately not to discuss litigation with Emma.
He apologized and stopped.
But it mattered.
Everything mattered now.
Meanwhile, forensic accountants traced more money.
Diane had used company funds for property deposits, private travel, jewelry, club dues, and something listed repeatedly as “educational consulting.”
That last category bothered Susan.
“There’s no consultant.”
“What is it?”
“We’re tracing.”
The answer arrived two days later.
Payments to a private fertility clinic.
I stared at the report.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
Diane was sixty-eight.
Susan looked uncomfortable.
“The patient isn’t Diane.”
My stomach tightened.
“Who?”
“We don’t have medical information, obviously. Just payment routing.”
“Then why do we care?”
“Because Nathan authorized six payments.”
“How much?”
“Two hundred twelve thousand total.”
I read the dates.
The earliest was eighteen months ago.
The most recent?
Three weeks ago.
I felt strangely detached.
“Could be anything.”
Susan nodded.
“It could.”
But we both knew.
That evening, I confronted no one.
I went home to Rachel’s.
Helped Emma with fractions.
Ordered Thai food.
Watched half a movie.
At 9:30, after Emma fell asleep, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
A woman’s voice.
Young.
Nervous.
“Yes?”
“My name is Vanessa Cole.”
I said nothing.
“You don’t know me.”
“Okay.”
“I worked with Nathan.”
Past tense.
My pulse changed.
“At Mercer Development?”
“Yes.”
“What department?”
“Marketing. I quit four months ago.”
I walked into the kitchen and closed the door.
“What do you want, Vanessa?”
She began crying.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
“I saw the news about the company investigation.”
The investigation wasn’t public yet.
But rumors had spread.
“And?”
“I think I know what Westbridge was for.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What?”
“I need to tell you in person.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m afraid Diane will find out.”
“Find out what?”
Silence.
Then Vanessa said:
“That Nathan has been seeing me for two years.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Painful.
Predictable.
Almost boring compared to everything else.
Then she said:
“But that isn’t the part you need to know.”
“What is?”
She took a shaking breath.
“I’m pregnant.”
My hand went numb.
May you like
And before I could speak, she added the sentence that explained more than I wanted it to.
“Diane knows.”
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