Chương 6
The air felt colder than it had earlier.
Rachel drove because my hands were still shaking.
I sat in the passenger seat wearing borrowed sweatpants and a sweatshirt from the hospital gift shop because my clothes had been taken for evidence.
It was strange how quickly a person could become disconnected from their own life.
My purse sat between my feet.
My wedding ring was still on my finger.
I noticed it when we stopped at a red light.
I twisted it once.
Then stopped.
Rachel noticed.
“You don’t have to decide tonight.”
“I know.”
“You can take it off when you’re ready.”
I looked out the window.
“I thought I would know exactly how I felt.”
Rachel kept her eyes on the road.
“About the ring?”
“About everything.”
The streetlights moved across the windshield.
“I thought if something really bad happened, there would be this moment where everything became clear.”
Rachel nodded.
“And?”
“And I still miss him.”
The confession felt disgusting.
Like I had betrayed myself by saying it.
Rachel did not react the way I expected.
She just said, “Okay.”
I looked at her.
“Okay?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all?”
“What else should I say?”
I shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
She sighed.
“Emma, missing someone who hurt you does not erase what they did.”
I looked away.
“I hate that.”
“I know.”
“I hate that my brain can remember him making me laugh when my body remembers being afraid.”
Rachel’s hands tightened around the steering wheel.
“That is probably the most honest thing you’ve said all night.”
We drove the rest of the way in silence.
Not uncomfortable silence.
The kind that happens when two people are carrying something too large for conversation.
Rachel’s apartment was small and cluttered in a way that felt comforting.
There were books stacked on the floor.
A plant leaning toward the window.
A basket of laundry that had clearly been there longer than she wanted anyone to know.
“You can sleep in my room,” she said.
“I’ll take the couch.”
“No.”
“Rachel.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
She pointed down the hallway.
“You are pregnant, injured, and emotionally exhausted.”
“I’m not helpless.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re treating me like I am.”
Rachel stopped.
Then she nodded.
“You’re right.”
The answer surprised me.
“I’m sorry.”
I stared at her.
“I’m scared.”
The honesty changed the room.
Not the dramatic kind of honesty.
The uncomfortable kind.
The kind people usually avoid.
“I keep thinking about what would have happened if Claire had not heard you.”
I looked down.
“Me too.”
Rachel wiped her eyes quickly.
“I am angry at you.”
The words made me look up.
She continued before I could react.
“I am angry that you thought you had to handle this alone.”
I opened my mouth.
She raised a hand.
“But I am not angry because you failed.”
The room became quiet.
“I’m angry because I love you.”
I looked away because that was somehow harder to hear.
Later, after Rachel fell asleep on the couch because she refused to admit she was tired, I sat alone in her bedroom.
The room smelled like laundry detergent and the lavender lotion she used every night.
A normal smell.
A safe smell.
I placed my hand over my stomach.
The baby moved.
Slowly.
I closed my eyes.
For the first time all day, I allowed myself to think about tomorrow.
Not next year.
Not the court.
Not whether Daniel would change.
Just tomorrow.
My phone buzzed again.
This time it was not Daniel.
It was an unknown number.
I almost ignored it.
Then I answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice came through.
“Is this Emma Cole?”
“Yes.”
There was a pause.
“This is Dr. Lauren Hayes.”
I sat up.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is.”
“I was your husband’s therapist.”
The room suddenly felt colder.
I looked toward the sleeping shape of Rachel on the couch.
“Why are you calling me?”
Another pause.
Longer this time.
“Because there is something you need to know about the story Daniel has been telling people.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“What story?”
The woman took a breath.
“The one where you are the reason he loses control.”
I did not speak.
The silence on the phone lasted long enough that I could hear the refrigerator humming from the kitchen.
Rachel shifted on the couch in the other room, still asleep.
For a moment, I considered hanging up.
Not because I did not want answers.
Because I was afraid of what answers would require from me.
“Dr. Hayes?”
“Yes.”
Her voice was careful.
Professional.
But there was something else underneath it.
Regret.
“How do you know my husband?”
“I treated Daniel for several months.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“When?”
“About two years ago.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Why would his therapist call his wife?”
Another pause.
This one felt deliberate.
“I debated whether I should contact you.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
She sighed quietly.
“It isn’t.”
The honesty caught me off guard.
People usually filled uncomfortable moments with explanations.
She left space.
“I cannot discuss everything from his sessions,” she said.
“But I can tell you something important.”
I looked toward the bedroom door.
“Is this about what happened today?”
“It is about a pattern.”
The word made my stomach tighten.
“Daniel told me you had anger problems.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was so predictable.
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“What else did he say?”
“He said you became unstable when you felt abandoned.”
I closed my eyes.
The phrase felt familiar.
Not because I believed it.
Because I had heard versions of it before.
“You believed him?”
Dr. Hayes was quiet.
“No.”
That answer came faster than I expected.
“Then why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was not your therapist.”
I looked down at my hands.
The bruises around my wrist were darker now.
May you like
“I don’t understand.”
“Daniel came to therapy after an incident.”
