At eight the next morning, after a formal review by the fund's authorized management and counsel, Constance sent a document-preservation request to the parties with financial interests in Rhodes Point. The request concerned loan draw certifications, supporting inspection reports, and the representations attached to Phase Two investment materials. It did not accuse anybody of a crime or demand records we had no right to see. It simply put the concerns before people who could exercise their own contractual rights and determine whether an independent review was warranted.
Harold called to confirm that his engineer was scheduled to visit the site. The site contractor had agreed to provide access under the loan inspection provisions, and an independent structural specialist would accompany the lender's construction consultant. They would compare reported progress with drawings, delivery records, poured concrete tickets, and physical observations. If the visual count was wrong, they would say so; if the certifications were wrong, they would document the discrepancy.
I told Harold I wanted no part in the inspection itself. I had given him my observations, and I had an obvious personal dispute with Julian that could complicate the credibility of anything else I did. Harold agreed. "You gave me a reason to check," he said. "That is not the same as you deciding the answer. Your father would have approved."
I spent that night sorting the last of the books in the back room. Some were filled with Samuel's annotations, brief square comments beside passages about property law or bridge failures. In one volume about early American railroad towns, he had written a sentence on the flyleaf: A line on a map changes nothing until somebody takes responsibility for the ground. I read it twice and put the book aside to take with me when I moved.
Moving was now unavoidable. Vanessa and I were negotiating the division of our household property, and I no longer wanted to remain in rooms that held our marriage in every drawer. I had begun looking for a small rental near Lynden Avenue with enough space for the walnut desk and the drafting table. I didn't need a grand house or a view of the river. I needed a place where I could open a window at night and not feel I was waiting for another car to pull into the driveway.
I called Constance and asked her to arrange a settlement meeting at the house, with a short opportunity to speak privately to Vanessa before the lawyers joined us. Constance asked whether I was certain I wanted that. I said there were things I needed to acknowledge and things Vanessa needed to understand, and I did not want either conversation to happen through a letterhead. She agreed on the condition that the legal terms would be discussed only with counsel present.
The meeting was scheduled for the following morning at ten. I polished my boots out of habit, then changed into ordinary shoes. There was no reason to turn the end of a marriage into a performance. When I passed the mirror in the hallway, the cut under my left eye had become a thin pink line, and I realized I had started thinking about it less often.
Vanessa opened the front door before I reached it. She wore a pale pink sweater and dark trousers, and for a moment I saw the woman I had married rather than the woman in the driveway. Her hair fell loosely around her shoulders, and she had neither the expensive earrings nor the sharp expression she favored at the events she attended with Julian. She stepped back to let me into the house without touching me.