Chapter 7: Sunday Afternoon
Christian's flight landed at 11:42 on Sunday morning.
Samantha knew because she had checked the airline's app three times before she set her phone face-down on the coffee table and made herself a cup of tea.
She had spent Saturday with Gloria going through every document Marcus Webb had delivered.
The photos.
The bank records.
The message thread between Christian and Daniel Reyes — which Reyes had provided directly, every exchange over fourteen months, Christian's tone shifting from apologetic to irritated to desperate as the demands grew larger.
"This is more than enough," Gloria had said, spreading the pages across her desk.
"The concealed account alone is significant in the divorce.
The attempted property fraud is a separate matter.
And the Reyes situation — depending on how Christian handled those payments — may have its own legal dimension."
"What do you mean?"
"If he was paying Reyes to suppress information, and he misrepresented those payments to any financial institution or on any tax document, that becomes a problem that goes beyond family court." Gloria had looked at her steadily.
"I want you to be prepared for the possibility that this becomes more complicated than a divorce."
Samantha had nodded.
"I'm prepared."
Now it was Sunday afternoon, and she was sitting in her apartment when she heard his key in the lock.
Christian came through the door with his suitcase, his jacket over one arm, his expression easy and relaxed.
He looked rested.
He looked like a man who had enjoyed his trip.
"Hey," he said, smiling.
"I missed you."
"Come sit down," Samantha said.
Something in her voice made him pause.
He looked at her more carefully.
"Everything okay?"
"Sit down, Christian."
He set his suitcase near the door and sat across from her.
He was still holding his jacket.
"I know about Miami," she said.
His face didn't move for a moment.
Then: "What are you talking about?"
"I know about Brittany.
I know about the apartment listing.
I know about the title search you ran three weeks before you left." She kept her voice level.
"And I know about Daniel Reyes."
The jacket slipped from his hand onto the cushion beside him.
"Sam—"
"Don't," she said.
"Please don't start with an explanation.
I've seen the bank records.
I've seen the messages.
I've spoken to Brittany.
And I've spoken to Marcus Webb."
Christian's face had gone very still.
"You hired someone," he said.
"He was already hired.
By your brother." She watched his jaw tighten.
"Daniel Reyes hired a private investigator to document your assets when you stopped returning his calls.
That investigator found me."
Christian stood up.
He walked to the window and stood with his back to her.
"It's not what it looks like," he said.
"Then turn around and tell me what it is."
He turned.
His expression had shifted.
The ease was gone.
What replaced it was something she hadn't seen on his face before — a kind of calculation, quick and cold.
"I was going to tell you about Daniel," he said.
"I was going to explain everything when I got back.
It's been an impossible situation.
He came out of nowhere and he's been threatening to go to my family, to cause problems—"
"So you decided to sell my apartment to pay him off."
"I was going to replace the money," he said.
"Once things settled down—"
"You were going to forge my signature," Samantha said.
"Or convince me to sign something I didn't understand.
You told Brittany I would sign whatever you put in front of me."
His mouth opened.
Then closed.
"She told you that."
"She told me a lot of things," Samantha said.
"Including that you promised her this apartment would be hers."
He crossed the room and sat down again.
When he spoke, his voice was quieter.
More careful.
"Samantha.
We can fix this.
Whatever you think you know — we can sit down with a mediator, we can work something out.
I made mistakes.
I know that.
But twelve years means something."
She looked at him.
"It did," she said.
"That's why this hurts the way it does."
She reached to the side table and picked up an envelope.
She held it out to him.
He took it.
Opened it.
Read the first line.
His hand dropped to his knee.
"You've already filed," he said.
May you like
"Friday morning," she said.
"Before you landed."
