Chapter 4 - Anton Marquetti Asked the Wrong Question
The note should have made me furious.
Instead, at first, it made me numb.
Grace trusts this group. You can too.
Eight words.
My name.
My credibility.
My relationship with people I loved.
Derek had reduced all of it to a sales tool.
Anton read the note twice.
Then a third time.
We were sitting in a private conference room at his attorney’s office with Ruth and a man named Harold Greene, who had brought the envelope.
Harold was eighty-one.
Retired postal worker.
Widower.
He wore a Red Sox cap in every season.
“I kept it because Grace’s name was on it,” Harold said.
I closed my eyes.
Anton looked at him.
“Did Mr. Shaw give this directly to you?”
“Yes.”
“At the library?”
Harold nodded.
“After that retirement workshop.”
“Anyone else present?”
“A few people.”
“Did Grace hear the conversation?”
“No.”
Anton turned toward me.
His face softened.
That somehow made everything worse.
“I’m sorry,” Harold said.
I opened my eyes.
“You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I should’ve asked you.”
“Harold, he was going to marry me. Why wouldn’t you believe him?”
That was the genius of it.
Derek had not impersonated me.
He had not forged my signature.
He had done something far more efficient.
He had borrowed my credibility.
He stood beside me.
He smiled.
He let people make the connection themselves.
Anton’s attorney, Julia Mercer, entered with another folder.
She was in her forties, sharp-eyed and completely unimpressed by Anton, which made me like her immediately.
“We have a problem.”
Anton looked up.
“Only one?”
Julia ignored him.
“The company listed on the brochure dissolved eighteen months ago.”
“Who owned it?” I asked.
“On paper? A holding company registered in Delaware.”
“And behind that?”
“Another entity.”
Anton sighed.
“And behind that?”
“Another.”
Ruth frowned.
“That sounds ridiculous.”
“It is,” Julia said. “Ridiculous things become useful when people have expensive lawyers.”
“Can you trace it?”
“We already have.”
Anton looked at her.
Julia placed a document on the table.
“Northbridge Financial Education received consulting payments from one of the affiliated entities.”
My pulse increased.
“That was Derek’s company.”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Just over nine hundred thousand dollars across three years.”
The room went silent.
I stared at the number.
Derek used to complain when I bought the expensive olive oil.
Nine hundred thousand dollars.
“Was that his company?”
“Partially,” Julia said. “He owned forty percent.”
“And the rest?”
“Two partners.”
She named them.
I recognized one.
Leonard Reese.
Ruth grabbed my arm.
“That’s him.”
Julia stopped.
“Who?”
“The adviser.”
The room changed.
Anton leaned forward.
“Are you certain?”
Ruth’s jaw tightened.
“I may be old, Mr. Marquetti. I am not dead.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“I know exactly who took my money.”
Anton nodded.
“I believe you.”
Later, after everyone left, I stood beside the conference room window.
Rain had stopped.
Boston looked clean and sharp below us.
Anton approached but kept distance.
“You should go home.”
“I don’t want to.”
“You haven’t slept.”
“I’ll sleep when I know what happened.”
“That could take time.”
I turned toward him.
“Did you ever lose money?”
He looked surprised.
“No.”
“Then you don’t understand.”
“You think this is about money?”
“For Ruth it is.”
“No.”
His tone sharpened.
“She could have lost twenty dollars and she would still feel the same shame.”
I looked away.
Anton continued more quietly.
“They made her doubt herself.”
I turned back.
There was something personal in his face.
“Who did that to you?”
His expression closed.
“Another time.”
“You ask me questions constantly.”
“Occupational habit.”
“What occupation?”
That earned me the faintest smile.
“Business.”
“Sure.”
I should have let it go.
Instead I asked, “What did you mean at dinner when you said everybody loses someone who never really existed?”
Anton’s gaze moved to the city.
“My wife.”
I immediately regretted asking.
“You don’t have to—”
“She died twelve years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We had been separated.”
He spoke with the controlled tone of someone reciting a fact he had repeated to himself until it stopped bleeding.
“She had another life I didn’t know about.”
“Another relationship?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Years.”
I winced.
Anton shrugged once.
“I was gone too often. Working. Solving everyone else’s problems. Believing providing was the same as being present.”
“That doesn’t make it your fault.”
“No. But guilt and fault aren’t the same thing.”
That sentence stayed with me.
I sat on the edge of the conference table.
“Did you love her?”
“Yes.”
“Even after?”
He thought about it.
“I loved the woman I thought she was.”
Exactly what he had said on our first date.
The person hardest to bury.
For the first time, Anton Marquetti did not seem dangerous.
He looked lonely.
“Why are you helping me?” I asked.
His eyes returned to mine.
“That’s the wrong question.”
“What’s the right one?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because this isn’t your problem.”
“You’re becoming my problem.”
I stared at him.
He winced.
“That sounded romantic in my head.”
I laughed.
“I’m relieved you admit it wasn’t.”
He stepped closer.
Not touching.
Just close enough that I became aware of him.
“Grace.”
“Yes?”
“I need you to understand something.”
The humor disappeared.
“If Derek did what this evidence suggests, the moment he realizes people are talking, he’ll try to control the story.”
“How?”
“He may contact you.”
“He hasn’t in months.”
“He will.”
“You sound certain.”
“Men like him don’t miss people.”
Anton’s voice lowered.
“They miss access.”
The words landed harder than I expected.
That evening, I returned to my apartment.
At 10:14, my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
Silence.
Then a familiar voice.
Warm.
Smooth.
Carefully concerned.
“Grace.”
Every muscle in my body froze.
Derek.
“I heard you’ve been asking questions about me.”
Anton had been right.
Derek did not miss me.
May you like
He missed control.
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