Chapter 10 - HE WROTE AS ME
I walked into the study and closed the door.
Graham followed.
I turned.
“Get out.”
“Elise, please.”
“OUT.”
Dana was still on the phone.
Graham stayed.
I opened the door again.
Richard stood in the hallway.
“Graham.”
That was all he said.
My husband left.
I locked the door.
“Dana?”
“I’m here.”
“What emails?”
Her tone remained professional.
“We found correspondence from a private account that identifies itself as belonging to you.”
“I don’t have a private account connected to Graham’s firm.”
“That’s part of our concern.”
My mouth went dry.
“What address?”
She told me.
elise.morgan.events@—
I had never seen it.
“Not mine.”
“All right.”
“What did ‘I’ say?”
“Several things.”
I sat down.
“One message confirmed your interest in hosting prospective clients.”
Another.
My consent to introduce donors.
Another.
My willingness to “coordinate philanthropic access.”
The wording alone made me furious.
I sounded like a hotel concierge for millionaires.
“Can you send them to me?”
“With counsel’s approval, yes.”
“Did Graham write them?”
“We’re investigating.”
“You know he did.”
“I can’t make that statement yet.”
Fair.
“Dana, there is something you need to know.”
I told her about the museum footage.
She went silent.
Then:
“Thank you.”
Something about the way she said it told me the problem had just become larger.
“How many emails are there?”
“Twenty-three.”
I closed my eyes.
Twenty-three.
This wasn’t one stupid night.
This wasn’t Thanksgiving pressure.
It was a system.
“Is my husband being investigated?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“I can only tell you what relates directly to your identity and information.”
Identity.
That word landed hard.
“Do I need a lawyer?”
A careful pause.
“I can’t give you legal advice.”
Meaning:
Probably.
When I came out of the study, most of the family had moved into the living room.
Nobody knew where to look.
Graham stood near the fireplace.
I walked toward him.
“Twenty-three emails.”
He closed his eyes.
“Elise.”
“Twenty-three.”
“I never sent them outside the firm.”
“You pretended to be me.”
“It was internal.”
I laughed.
“You think impersonation becomes romantic if it stays inside the office?”
“I needed written support for the proposal.”
“So you made it.”
“I knew you supported me.”
My voice rose.
“I SUPPORTED YOU.”
The room went still.
“I packed lunches when you worked fourteen-hour days. I canceled trips. I sat through firm dinners. I listened to you rehearse presentations at midnight. I paid more of the mortgage when you changed departments.”
His face broke slightly.
“That was support.”
I pointed toward the office.
“Pretending to be me is not support.”
Cynthia whispered, “Graham, tell me that isn’t true.”
He didn’t.
For the first time all day, she looked at her son instead of me.
“What did you do?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“I can fix this.”
Richard shook his head.
“No.”
Graham turned.
“I can.”
“No, you can’t.”
“You don’t decide that.”
Richard stared at him.
“Actually, as chair of the partnership committee, I decide part of it.”
Graham’s face hardened.
Then Richard said something none of us expected.
“But the emails aren’t the worst thing we found.”
Graham stopped breathing.
May you like
Richard looked at me.
“Elise, there’s money missing.”
