Chapter 9: Sunday Morning
Julian was at my door at seven.
His face told me he had already checked the account.
I let him in.
He walked to the center of the room — that spot again, the same place he always seemed to land — and turned to face me.
"The joint account," he said.
"It's empty."
"I transferred the funds last night."
"To your personal account."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment.
"Mother texted me at 6 a.m.
She said to check it immediately.
She said — " He stopped.
"What did she say?"
"She said you'd probably done something to it.
She said I needed to act fast." He looked at me.
"She wanted me to transfer it to my own account before you could move it."
"I know."
"How do you know?"
"Because she told you to remember you had equal access at 1:31 in the morning.
That was the signal.
She was planning to have you move the money before I woke up." I kept my voice even.
"I moved it at 9:47 p.m."
Julian sat down.
He pressed his hands flat on his knees.
The same posture.
The same gesture that I now understood was not weakness — it was the posture of a man trying very hard to hold himself together.
"She's been planning this for a long time," he said.
"Eight months of attorney consultations.
A trip designed to provoke me.
An email three days before we left Chicago laying out an accelerated divorce timeline." I sat across from him.
"Yes.
She has been planning this for a long time."
He looked up.
"You have the email."
"Victoria found it in Eleanor's bag.
She brought it to me yesterday afternoon."
Something moved across his face — surprise, and then something more complicated.
"Victoria."
"Yes."
He was quiet for a moment.
"I didn't know about the email.
I want you to believe that."
"I'm trying to."
"What I told you yesterday — about finding out two weeks ago — that was about the attorney.
Just that she was consulting one.
I didn't know what they were planning.
I didn't know about the trip being — " He stopped.
"I didn't know about any of that."
"Julian." I leaned forward slightly.
"I need to ask you something directly, and I need you to answer me directly.
Not carefully.
Not protectively.
Directly."
He nodded.
"Did you, at any point, share information about my personal investment portfolio with your mother?"
His brow pulled together.
"Your portfolio?
No.
I don't even know the balance of your portfolio."
"The email lists the correct balance."
He stared at me.
"How would she — " He stopped.
His expression changed.
"The refinancing.
Three years ago.
We printed that financial summary for the mortgage broker.
I filed it in the home office drawer."
"The shared drawer."
"She stayed with us for a week last November.
She was in the home office — I thought she was using the printer." He looked like a man watching something fall in slow motion.
"I didn't think anything of it."
"She photographed the document."
"I don't know.
Maybe." He put his face in his hands briefly.
Then he dropped them.
"Genevieve, I am so sorry.
I know that isn't enough.
But I am."
I looked at him.
At the genuine distress on his face.
At the man who had shown me the texts, who had told his mother to stop, who had said *she is my family* in a room full of people who expected him to say the opposite.
"I believe you didn't know," I said.
"But I need you to understand something.
My attorney has seen the email.
She considers the portfolio information a serious issue — how it was obtained, what it was used for.
This is not something that resolves itself with a signed piece of hotel stationery."
"What does it resolve with?"
"I don't know yet.
That depends on what Eleanor does next."
Julian looked at the balcony.
At the ocean.
"She's going to be furious about the account."
"Yes."
"She'll call Gerald."
"She may already have."
He turned back to me.
"What do you want me to do?"
I thought about what Diane had said.
*Be careful what you tell him.* I thought about the fact that I was still thinking about it — still measuring, still uncertain — and what that meant for the marriage we were supposedly trying to save.
"I want you to do something that will be hard for you," I said.
"What?"
"I want you to go downstairs, sit with your mother at breakfast, and tell her that you checked the account and it was already empty.
Tell her you don't know when it happened.
Tell her you're upset."
Julian frowned.
"You want me to lie to her."
"I want you to give me one more day to understand what she's planning before she knows how much I know." I held his gaze.
"Can you do that?"
He was quiet for a long time.
"Yes," he said finally.
"I can do that."
"Thank you."
He stood.
He walked to the door.
He paused, hand on the handle, the same way he had yesterday.
"Genevieve."
"Yes."
"After this is over — whatever over looks like — I want to try.
I mean that."
I looked at him.
"I know you do."
He left.
I picked up my phone and called Diane.
"She's going to move today," I said when she answered.
"The account is empty and she'll know by breakfast.
What do we do?"
"We let her move," Diane said.
"And we document everything she does next." A pause.
"I spoke to my colleague last night.
About the portfolio information.
He wants to know if you're willing to file a complaint."
I looked at the email on the desk.
At Gerald Ashworth's name.
At the words *accelerated timeline* and *useful final documentation opportunity.*
"Yes," I said.
"I'm willing."
"Good," Diane said.
"Then let her have breakfast.
Let her call Gerald.
May you like
Let her make her next move." A pause.
"Because whatever she does today, she'll be doing it on the record."
