She made tea because it gave her hands something to do.
Simi sat at her kitchen table with both palms flat on the surface the way people do when they're trying to stay grounded, and Diane put two mugs down and sat across from her and waited.
"My mother worked for the Marchetti family trust," Simi said. "Bookkeeper. For fifteen years, from 1995 to 2010. She handled the secondary accounts, the ones that didn't go through the main firm." She looked up. "She never told me you were connected to them. I swear that. She never told me your surname meant anything until — Dee, I've known you since secondary school. I would never have—"
"Tell me what happened," Diane said quietly.
Simi exhaled. "Three weeks ago I got a call from a man who said he was Raymond Marchetti's personal assistant. He knew my mother had worked for the trust. He knew her name, her dates of employment, everything." She wrapped both hands around the mug. "He said they were reaching out to people who had historical connections to the trust to assist with an ongoing matter. He used very careful language. He said if I happened to be in contact with Diane Osei it would be appreciated if I kept him informed of anything that seemed relevant to her financial or legal affairs."
The kitchen was quiet except for the sound of the building settling and the faint noise of a television somewhere below.
"I said no," Simi said. "I told him I didn't know what he was talking about and I ended the call. And then I sat on it for three weeks because I didn't know how to tell you without—" She stopped. "I didn't know how much you knew. I didn't know if telling you would help or just frighten you."
"You should have told me the day it happened."
"I know."
"Simi."
"I know, Diane. I know." Her voice cracked slightly on the second one. "I panicked. I thought if I told you it would pull you into something and if I didn't tell you maybe it would just go away. I was wrong. I'm sorry."
Diane looked at her friend. She had known Simi for sixteen years. She knew the specific architecture of Simi's guilt — how it sat in the set of her shoulders and the way she couldn't quite hold eye contact. This was real. This was not a performance.
That didn't mean it didn't hurt.
"Does your mother know anything about the bloodline clause," Diane said.
Simi looked up sharply. "The what."
"I'll explain later. Does she know anything about the original 1974 agreement between the Marchetti and Okonkwo families."
"I — maybe. I don't know. She never talked about the specifics of what she worked on." Simi's brow pulled together. "Why? What is happening?"
"I'll tell you everything. I promise. But first I need to know if your mother still has any of the documents from her time at the trust."
"She might. She kept files. She kept everything, it used to drive my father mad." Simi reached across the table and put her hand over Diane's. "I'm sorry I waited. Whatever this is, I'm not on their side. You know that."
"I know," Diane said. And she did. But she also knew that sorry and safe were not the same word, and that Raymond Marchetti had found Simi's number inside three weeks of Diane becoming a problem. Which meant he had resources she hadn't accounted for and a timeline he hadn't shown her.
Simi left at midnight. Diane locked the door and stood in the kitchen for a moment, then picked up her phone to set an alarm.
There was a notification waiting. A message from a number she didn't recognise, no text, just an attachment.
She opened it.
A photograph. Taken from an elevated angle, slightly blurred with distance but clear enough. Her and Adrian on the pavement outside his building the previous night, standing close together, her face tilted up toward his.
Someone had been watching.
And they wanted her to know it.