If he’d come to me then, told me “actually I tried to stop it but the board overruled me,” I would have laughed in his face.Would have assumed he was spinning a convenient narrative to absolve himself.
“And when it all came crashing down,” he continues quietly, “you looked at me like I was the villain. And I couldn’t defend myself without making everything worse. So I let you go. Let you believe what you needed to believe. Because at least that way you could move forward without being an accessory to my confidentiality breach.”
I blink in the darkness, slowly understanding. “If you’d shown me those memos, I would have been in possession of documents you obtained illegally by violating your fiduciary duty. As a lawyer, I would have had an ethical obligation to report you.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “You’d be stuck with evidence that could help Leena, but couldn’t act on it without exposing how you got it. The moment you used it, I’d face criminal charges. You would’ve been in an impossible position. Watch Leena suffer while sitting on information that could exonerate her, or destroy my career to save hers. I couldn’t do that to you.”
Shit.
He’s right.
“I figured that one day,” he continues, “after the legal proceedings had settled, after the regulatory inquiries were closed, after there was no active case where you could use that information, I’d tell you the truth and make everything right again. But after the case closed, one day turned into one week. Then one month. Then five years. I kept pushing it forward. Kept finding an excuse not to call you. Kept telling myself you’d never answer a call from me in a million years anyway, so why try? That’s why I didn’t fight. That’s why I didn’t try. That’s why I ruined what we had...”
I feel something hot behind my eyes.
This is not the time to cry. Crying isnota part of the plan.
Except I don’t have a plan anymore because the entire foundation of my anger just collapsed.
For five years I’ve carried this wound. This betrayal. The idea that Corin Saelinger was someone who chose money and power over integrity.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“I know you didn’t.” He sounds exhausted. “And I couldn’t tell you.”
The rain sounds even more distant now. Like we’re in a bubble separate from the rest of the world.
I should stay on my end of the futon.
Should maintain that careful physical distance we’ve been clinging to for weeks.
But instead I reach out to him in the dim light. My hand fumbles slightly, finds his forearm first, then slides down until our fingers brush.
He freezes.
I lace my fingers through his and hold on.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “For not asking. For not giving you a chance to explain.”
“You had every right to walk away.” His hand tightens around mine. “I looked guilty as hell.”
“You lookedcomplicit,” I correct. “There’s a difference. Legally speaking.”
His laugh is short and bitter. “Legally speaking, yes. I knew about the fraud and I didn’t report it immediately. That makes me liable regardless of intent.”
“Intent matters.”
He shakes his head. “Not in criminal court.”
“Good thing we’re not in criminal court, then.” I shift slightly closer. “This is more like arbitration. Messy facts, conflicting interests, no clear right answer.”
“And what’s the ruling?” he presses.
I think about this. About Leena and the scandal and the position he was in. About the fact that he’s spent five years building transparency programs and funding legal clinics as some kind of penance.
About the way he brings me coffee and stayed all day when I was sick.
“Judgment deferred,” I say finally. “Pending further evidence.”
