Chapter 6: Diane
Her name was Diane Forsythe now.
She'd remarried — a quiet man named Gerald who taught high school history in Providence.
She answered on the third ring, and when Tony explained who he was and why he was calling, there was a pause, and then she said, simply: "I wondered if this day would ever come."
She drove up the following morning.
She sat in Tony's conference room in a gray cardigan with her hands folded on the table, and she told us everything in the measured, careful way of someone who has rehearsed the story many times in private but never been given a room to say it in.
"We were married four years," she said.
"The first two were fine.
The last two — I kept noticing things.
Small amounts missing from our savings.
Explanations that almost made sense.
I didn't want to be the wife who accused her husband, so I waited.
And while I waited, he moved everything."
"How much?" Tony asked.
"Sixty-three thousand dollars.
Over about eighteen months." She looked at her hands.
"When I finally confronted him, he told me I was confused.
That I'd misread the statements.
That I was under stress." She paused.
"He was very calm about it.
That was the frightening part.
He never raised his voice.
He just kept explaining, very patiently, why I was wrong."
"Did he ever become physical?" Tony asked.
Diane shook her head.
"Not with me.
But I heard later — from his cousin, years after — that there had been an incident with his mother.
An argument that got out of hand." She looked at me.
"He doesn't do it often.
But when someone challenges him in front of an audience, something shifts."
I thought about my mother's cheek.
The ceramic vase on the floor.
"The divorce settlement," Tony said.
"You signed without representation."
"He told me an attorney would make it adversarial.
That we could handle it like adults." She gave a short, humorless sound.
"I was twenty-nine.
I believed him." She looked at Tony.
"What did I sign away?"
"We're still determining the full picture," Tony said carefully.
"But based on what we have so far, the settlement you signed may have been structured to waive rights you weren't aware you held."
Diane nodded slowly.
She wasn't surprised.
That was the saddest part.
"Is there anything you need from me?" she asked.
"A formal statement.
And if it comes to it, testimony."
"You'll have both." She unfolded her hands and placed them flat on the table.
"I want to ask you something." She looked at me directly.
"Your mother.
Is she all right?"
"She's staying with a friend," I said.
"She's shaken.
But she's strong."
"Good." Diane held my gaze.
"Don't let him make this about the money.
That's what he wants — he wants it to be a financial dispute, because those are slow and complicated and expensive.
What he did to your mother is not a financial dispute.
Make sure your attorney keeps both things moving at the same time."
Tony looked at her with something close to admiration.
"That's exactly what we're doing."
---
Barron called four times while Diane was in the building.
I let every call go to voicemail.
The fourth voicemail was different from the others.
His voice was still controlled, but underneath it something had changed — a tightness, a pressure, like a lid on a pot that was starting to lift.
*"I know you've been talking to people.
I know what you think you have.
I want you to understand something before this goes further — the apartment, the mortgage equity, the joint investments — none of that will go the way Tony Morgan is telling you it will.
I have documentation of every dollar I contributed to this marriage.
Every dollar.
If you want to make this ugly, I am prepared to make it very ugly.
Think about your mother.
Think about what a long legal fight does to a woman her age.
Call me back."*
I played it for Tony.
He listened to the whole thing without expression.
When it ended, he held out his hand for my phone.
"May I?" he asked.
I handed it over.
He forwarded the voicemail to his own number and to the forensic accountant and to a third contact I didn't recognize.
Then he handed the phone back.
"He just threatened you and your mother in the same breath," Tony said.
"And he recorded himself doing it." He picked up his pen.
"Thank you, Barron."
For the first time in three days, I almost smiled.
But Tony's expression stayed level.
"There's something I need to tell you.
The forensic accountant finished her preliminary trace this morning." He opened a folder.
"The transfers to Renata's account — nine of them — didn't stop at Renata.
She received the money, and within forty-eight hours of each transfer, a portion moved again.
To a holding account in Bruno's name."
I stared at him.
"Bruno."
"Barron's brother.
The one whose wedding you funded."
"He was using Renata as a pass-through."
"It appears so.
Whether Renata knew the full structure, we don't yet know.
But Bruno almost certainly did." Tony closed the folder.
"This is no longer just Barron.
This is a family operation."
The room felt smaller suddenly.
"Celina knew," I said.
"When I called her and said Renata's name, she already knew."
"Yes," Tony said.
"I think she did."
My phone buzzed one more time.
Not Barron this time.
A text from Bruno.
*We need to talk.
Just you and me.
May you like
No lawyers.
Please.*
