Chapter 7: Old Debts
It took Marcus's paralegal three days to find the case.
Vance Properties LLC versus Hargrove Family Trust.
Filed eleven years ago in Cook County Circuit Court.
Settled out of court, terms sealed — but the outcome was visible in the public record: the Hargrove family had lost a commercial property on the north shore that had been in their name for two generations.
The property had been absorbed into the Vance portfolio.
The Hargrove patriarch had died eighteen months after the settlement.
His wife had moved to a smaller house in Skokie.
His daughter — his only child — had gone to college on a partial scholarship.
Catherine Anne Hargrove.
Now Catherine Anne Vance.
Marcus called me on a Thursday afternoon.
I was sitting at the kitchen table helping Sophie with a worksheet on state capitals.
"Sacramento," Sophie was saying.
"California."
I held up one finger.
She rolled her eyes with the patience of someone who had been eight for several months and felt the weight of it.
I stepped into the hallway.
"She planned this for years," Marcus said without preamble.
"She didn't meet Preston by accident.
I've had someone look at the timeline.
She moved into his professional circle approximately two years ago.
Joined the same charity board.
Started attending the same events."
"She targeted him."
"Methodically.
And the wedding date — December fourteenth — is not a coincidence.
The trust distributes on December thirty-first.
She needed to be legally married to a Vance before the distribution, and she needed you discredited before it."
I leaned against the wall.
Down the hallway, Sophie had moved on to Montana without me.
*Helena,* she said quietly to herself, trying it out.
"She didn't just want the money," I said.
"She wanted to take it from us specifically."
"That's my read."
"Does Preston know any of this?"
A pause.
"That's the question, isn't it."
I had not spoken to Preston since I closed the door on him.
My mother had called twice more.
I had not answered.
My father had sent a single text: *This has gone far enough, Evelyn.* I had not replied to that either.
"Marcus," I said.
"I need to talk to Catherine directly."
"That is not what I would advise."
"I'm not asking for legal advice right now.
I'm telling you what I'm going to do." I kept my voice even.
"I want to look at her and ask her to her face.
I want to see what she does."
A long silence.
"If you do this, you say nothing about the trust, the lawsuit, or Diane's statement.
You ask questions.
You listen.
You give her nothing."
"Understood."
"And Evelyn—" His voice shifted slightly.
"Be careful.
A woman who can plan something like this for two years and execute it in a ballroom full of witnesses is not someone who panics easily."
I thanked him and hung up.
Back in the kitchen, Sophie had finished the worksheet and was drawing small stars in the margins.
"Mom," she said, without looking up.
"Is Catherine a bad person?"
I sat down across from her.
"What makes you ask that?"
"Because at the wedding, before everything happened—" She kept drawing stars, small and careful.
"She came over to me at the brooch table.
She said I could hold the pretty one.
She put it in my hands.
And then she took it back and said, 'Better not.
Someone might think you took it.'" Sophie looked up.
"I thought she was being nice.
But it was a weird thing to say."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Sophie," I said carefully.
"Did you tell anyone that?"
"No.
Was I supposed to?"
I reached across the table and covered her hand with mine.
May you like
"Yes," I said.
"And I need you to tell me everything you remember."
