Chapter 8: What Ryan Said at the Door
He came to the house on Wednesday evening.
I saw his car from the upstairs window and came downstairs before he could ring the bell.
I opened the door but didn't step back to let him in.
He looked like he hadn't slept.
His jacket was wrinkled in a way that suggested he'd worn it the day before and not noticed.
He had the look of a man who had spent two days running calculations and kept arriving at the same answer.
"I need to talk to you," he said.
"You can talk from there."
He exhaled.
"I know what David filed.
My attorney called me this morning."
"Then you know where things stand."
"I want to explain—"
"Ryan." I kept my voice even.
"Gerald Fitch gave a full statement.
The DA's office has the documents, the bank records, and the phone.
Your mother's holding company is registered to my address.
There isn't a version of events that needs your explanation right now.
There's only what happens next, and that's being handled."
He put one hand on the door frame.
Not aggressive.
More like he needed something to hold onto.
"I didn't know about the forgery," he said.
"I want you to know that.
I told my mother we needed the transfers to go through and I left the details to her.
I didn't ask how she was going to do it."
"That's not the comfort you think it is."
"I know." He looked down.
"I know that."
"You took forty-one thousand dollars from my account.
You told a woman she could live in my father's apartment.
You brought me paperwork and described it as something it wasn't and watched me sign it." I paused.
"Which part of that did you need your mother's help with?"
He didn't answer.
"I want to know one thing," I said.
"The ring.
The one you gave Carla.
You told me it was too expensive."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I know."
"That's all I wanted to know."
He opened his eyes.
"What happens to the house?
This house?"
"David is filing a motion to freeze the joint assets pending the civil case.
You'll receive the paperwork."
"And you?
Where will you—"
"That's not something I'm going to discuss with you."
He nodded slowly.
He looked at me for a long moment with an expression I didn't try to interpret.
Then he said, "I'm sorry.
I know that doesn't—"
"It doesn't," I agreed.
He took his hand off the door frame.
Stepped back.
"Tell your mother," I said, "that her attorney should advise her to cooperate fully.
The DA's office is not looking for a reason to go easy on the secondary party.
They're looking for the clearest path to the primary."
He went still.
"What does that mean?"
"It means the question of who produced the forged signature page is still open.
And whoever answers it first gets the better deal."
I watched him understand that.
"Goodbye, Ryan," I said.
I closed the door.
I stood in the hallway for a moment.
The house was quiet.
Through the kitchen window, the late afternoon light was coming in at a low angle, the way it did in October, catching the dust in the air and making it visible.
My phone buzzed.
A message from David: *Diane's attorney called.
She wants to talk.*
I typed back: *Tell them Thursday.
May you like
My office, not hers.*
I put the phone in my pocket and went to make tea.
