“You moved the money.”
“Yes.”
“That’s theft.”
“No,” you said. “That’s escrow.”
He was breathing hard. “You had no right to touch my business records.”
You stared out the hotel window at the wet city lights trembling over traffic. “The records hidden in the false bottom of the tool box?”
He went silent.
That silence tasted better than revenge had any right to.
“You knew,” he said at last, and his voice came out thinner.
“Not at first. At first I thought you were just sleeping with her and using my cards because you were greedy and lazy. Then I found the deed, the cash, the stamp, and the tax files, and I realized you were ambitious too.” You sat down on the edge of the bed. “That was devastating for a minute. It’s always disappointing when a mediocre man turns out more organized than you hoped.”
“What do you want?”
There it was. The sacred question of men like Diego. Not what did I do, not how much have I damaged, not can this be made right. What do you want. Because if everything is desire, then nothing is conscience.
“I want my name back,” you said. “The one you used on loans, cards, and fake signatures. I want every dollar you ran through my life without permission counted out in daylight. I want you to say ‘my wife never knew’ under oath and then watch the paper trail answer for you.” You paused. “And I want you to stop calling that apartment yours when you were already trying to sell pieces of it out from under both of us.”
He started to speak, then stopped.
When he finally answered, the anger had gone somewhere quieter and more dangerous. “You think people are going to believe you over me?”
You almost felt sorry for him then.
