“Stop what?” “The lawsuit, the investigation, everything. I’m tired.”
Walter nodded slowly. “I know.”
Then he said something so simple that I’ve never forgotten it. “Natalie, if you quit because you’re exhausted, he’ll spend the rest of his life believing decent people always give up.”
I stared into my mug. “I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
He smiled. “I’ve buried the love of my life.”
“I promise you, strength isn’t something you wake up with. It’s something you discover because quitting hurts even more.”
Three evenings later, Rebecca called. “Can you come to my office first thing tomorrow?”
“Did something happen?” “Yes.”
“Good or bad?” “I honestly don’t know yet.”
The next morning, a woman was already sitting inside Rebecca’s conference room. She had perfect makeup, a designer handbag, and red eyes.
I recognized her immediately from photographs. Monica, Logan’s girlfriend.
She stood awkwardly. “I’m not here because I’m a good person.”
I appreciated the honesty. “I’m here because Logan lied to me, too.”
Nobody spoke. She slowly placed a flash drive on the table, then another, then a thick envelope.
“I thought he was divorced. He told me your marriage ended years ago.” She swallowed hard.
“He also convinced me to invest nearly $400,000.” Rebecca looked up sharply.
“What?” Monica nodded.
“He stole that, too.” Inside the envelope were printed emails, wire transfer confirmations, property contracts, voice recordings, even handwritten notes Logan had made during meetings.
Michael flipped through the first dozen pages, then the next dozen. His eyebrows kept climbing higher.
Finally, he looked at Rebecca, then at me. A slow smile spread across his face.
“For the first time,” he said quietly, “I think we finally have everything.” The courthouse in Hamilton County had never looked so intimidating.
I’d worked in hospitals for more than 20 years. I could stay calm during emergency deliveries, comfort frightened families, and make life-or-death decisions without panicking.
But walking through those courthouse doors that morning, my hands were shaking so badly, I almost dropped Emma’s diaper bag. She was 4 months old by then, happily chewing on the corner of a teething toy as if this were any other Tuesday.
I envied her. Outside, television vans lined the curb.
Most weren’t there because of my divorce. They were there because word had spread that federal investigators had begun looking into several of Logan’s investment accounts.
Apparently, once one thread started unraveling, a lot of people realized they’d been holding the same sweater. Rebecca leaned toward me before we entered the courtroom.
“One more thing.” “What?”
“No matter what happens today, don’t react to Logan.” “I won’t.”
“I mean it.” “I know.”
“He’ll probably try.” She was right.
