Chapter 5 - The Cleanup and the Craft
Back at the Pioneer Square workshop, the rain had finally subsided, replaced by a crisp, clear autumn afternoon that cast long, golden shafts of light across my workbenches.
I spent the next three days doing what I did best: cleaning up structural damage.
With Marcus Vance handling the legal annihilation of Kent's assets and ensuring my name was completely insulated from the federal embezzlement charges, my focus shifted entirely back to my craft. I pulled a magnificent 1920 Italian cello from its case—an instrument brought to me by a brilliant young conservatory student whose career had stalled because her instrument had a warped soundboard and a fractured bridge.
Restoring an antique instrument requires infinite patience. You cannot rush the glue setting. You cannot force a warped piece of maple back into alignment without steaming it gently, respecting the natural grain of the wood, and applying steady, measured pressure over twenty-four hours.
As I worked, the rhythmic scrape of my micro-chisel felt therapeutic. Every stroke felt like shedding another layer of the dead weight I had carried through fourteen years of a fraudulent marriage.
The bell above the shop door chimed softly around 3:00 PM.
I didn't look up immediately, assuming it was Marcus dropping off another stack of court filings or bank statements.
"If you're bringing me more divorce deposition papers, put them on the ledger desk," I said, smoothing a layer of hide glue along the inner ribs of the cello.
"I'm not Marcus," a quiet, hesitant voice replied.
I stopped working, my hands resting on the edge of the workbench. I looked up.
Standing near the front counter, looking remarkably small and pale in an oversized trench coat, was Lacy Monroe.
She wasn't wearing her tailored ivory silk dress or antique hair combs. She wore a plain black turtleneck, no makeup, and her hair tied back in a messy ponytail. She looked less like a corporate femme fatale and more like what she truly was: a terrified, deeply misguided young woman who had let greed and deception swallow her whole.
"How did you find this place?" I asked, my voice devoid of anger, carrying only cold, crystalline calm.
Lacy swallowed hard, taking two tentative steps forward. She stopped a few feet away from my workbench, keeping her hands tucked deep inside her coat pockets.
"I... I went to your townhouse first," she whispered, her voice shaking. "The locks were changed. The moving truck was in the driveway. Your lawyer told me where your workshop was if I wanted to drop off... this."
She pulled her hand out of her pocket and placed a small, heavy object onto the corner of my workbench.
It was a gold signet ring. Kent's wedding band—the one he had supposedly lost down a sink drain six months ago, which she had apparently fished out of his bedside drawer before the federal marshals sealed his apartment.
"I didn't know he was married when we first started," Lacy said, her voice cracking as tears welled up in her eyes. "He told me you were separated. He told me you hadn't shared a life in years. He bought me dinners, he gave me gifts, he made me feel like I mattered in this city... and I was stupid enough to believe every single word."
I looked at the gold ring sitting beside my bottle of amber shellac.
"You weren't just stupid, Lacy," I said quietly, picking up my sanding block. "You were complicit. You helped him siphon foundation funds, you flaunted our relationship status at public charity events, and you stood in that dining room on our fourteenth anniversary and tried to humiliate me into silence."
Lacy flinched as if she had been physically struck. She dropped her gaze to the floor, her shoulders shaking. "I know. I'm facing three counts of wire fraud conspiracy. My life is completely destroyed. The foundation fired me, my apartment lease was terminated, and my family in Spokane won't even take my phone calls."
"Kent built a house of cards, and he invited both of us to live in it," I said, meeting her eyes steadily. "The difference is, I chose to walk out the moment the foundation cracked. You stayed until the roof caved in."
She nodded slowly, a single tear spilling over her lower lid and tracking down her cheek. She turned toward the door, her steps heavy and defeated.
"Sylvia?" she whispered, pausing at the threshold.
"Yes, Lacy?"
"I'm sorry. For the dinner. For the lies."
May you like
"Save your apologies for the federal judge," I replied, turning my attention back to the cello neck. "You're going to need all the practice you can get."
The door clicked shut behind her. I didn't watch her leave. I picked up my brush, dipped it into the warm shellac, and continued painting the smooth, clean grain of the instrument, restoring its voice one careful stroke at a time.
