A week later, a LinkedIn connection request from Mark Dobson. My eyebrow nearly hit my hairline. The message attached was terse, clearly dictated or heavily influenced:
James. Mark here. Look, this is awkward. Sarah is staying with me and it's not working out. She's crying all the time, man. She says you have all the money locked up. She just wants to talk to you to apologize. Can you just call her for everyone's sanity? I'll give you my new number below.
So Mark was back in the picture, or she'd somehow wheedled her way back to him, and he was now so inconvenienced he was acting as her secretary. The sheer, pathetic transparency of it was almost funny. He wanted his easy life back, and she was the price of admission. I ignored the request. I didn't block him; I let the pending notification sit there, a monument to his irrelevance.
Her next email to my lawyer-filtered address was pure, unfiltered fury born of panic:
Subject: Enough.
You win, okay? You humiliated me legally, and you've humiliated me with my friends. You've frozen me out financially. Are you happy now? Have you proven your point? I'm losing everything. My home, my friends, my dignity. Now, can we please talk like two adults who shared a life and fix this? Or are you really that cruel?
It was the sound of a gambler who'd lost her last chip trying to blame the dealer. I forwarded it to Diane with a two-word note: As expected.
Diane's reply: The settlement conference is scheduled. Her tone will change there.
Attempt four: The ambush.
Two months to the day after I'd walked out, she found me.
I'd moved into a permanent condo, a modern high-rise with a concierge and key-fob access for the elevator. I'd chosen it for the silence and the security.
I was returning from a long Saturday ride on the motorcycle, helmet in hand, leather jacket worn in, feeling the pleasant ache of miles in my shoulders. As I walked through the polished lobby toward the elevators, a figure uncurled itself from one of the austere lounge chairs.
"James."