Chương 6
“I did not say put it online,” Robert protested over coffee.
“You said, and I quote, ‘People should know what these bastards did.’”
“That could mean lots of things.”
“You opened Facebook while you said it.”
“I was checking something.”
“You don’t check anything on Facebook before nine.”
Robert looked offended by the specificity.
Emma drank lukewarm coffee.
The twins slept nearby.
He said, “So what do we do?”
“We find out what exists.”
“How?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“You could call the police.”
“And say what?”
“That your husband secretly recorded you.”
“Where? For how long? What was captured? Who has it? Was audio recorded? Was anything deleted? Where are the servers? Who owns the company? What exactly did I agree to? Except I didn’t agree. I don’t know any of it.”
Robert folded his arms.
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I sound like somebody who doesn’t want to screw this up.”
He looked toward the clear container on the counter.
“So we just keep that?”
“For now.”
“Shouldn’t we copy the card?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t know how.”
“I know how.”
“That is exactly why you’re not doing it.”
Robert frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you think knowing where the slot is makes you a forensic expert.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
“Fair.”
At 9:30, Emma called the referral number on the website of the state bar association and asked for an attorney who handled privacy, digital surveillance, and consumer technology.
She did not describe the details to the receptionist.
She was given three names.
One could speak that afternoon.
The attorney, Monica Reed, had an office forty minutes away and a voice that made no promises.
Emma liked her immediately.
Monica listened for almost half an hour without interrupting except to ask dates.
Then she said, “Do not alter the device. Do not log into company systems using Daniel’s credentials yet. Save every message. Save the email with the agreement. Do not post accusations. Do not threaten anyone. Do not destroy anything.”
Robert, sitting across the room, looked disappointed by nearly every instruction.
Emma asked, “Can they delete the videos?”
“They can attempt to. Whether copies exist elsewhere is a different question.”
“What can I do?”
“Preserve what you have. Then we can demand preservation from them.”
“Does that make them preserve it?”
“It gives us a record that we told them not to destroy relevant material.”
Emma appreciated the distinction.
Nobody saying magic words.
Nobody promising that institutions worked cleanly.
Monica asked whether Emma wanted law enforcement involved.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s allowed.”
“Daniel forged my signature.”
“That may matter separately from the recording.”
“May?”
“I’m not going to tell you what I think anyone will charge or prove before I see the documents and know where the recording occurred.”
Again, Emma appreciated it.
“What do you need from me?”
“Everything you already have. And one thing you may not want to give me.”
“What?”
“The ugliest version of the truth.”
Emma almost smiled.
“That’s a lot of versions right now.”
“I mean about Daniel. Money problems. Marriage problems. Anything he could use to claim you knew about the project, benefited from it, or authorized it.”
Emma looked toward the babies.
“He paid debt with the money.”
“That doesn’t mean you consented. I need the facts anyway.”
After the call, Robert said, “She’s expensive.”
“Yes.”
“How expensive?”
Emma told him.
He whistled.
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“Emma.”
“I said no.”
“You have two babies and a husband who apparently financed a startup by turning your bedroom into a laboratory.”
“He didn’t finance the startup.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. Still no.”
Robert leaned back.
“Why?”
Because she was thirty-two years old.
Because her father had already stepped between her and her husband with his hand.
Because everyone kept deciding what she could handle.
Because she had spent six weeks needing help with nearly everything physical and had begun to confuse dependence with incompetence.
“I can use our savings.”
“What savings?”
Emma looked at him.
Robert grimaced.
“Sorry.”
That afternoon Daniel asked to see the twins.
Emma did not answer for an hour.
Then she wrote:
You may come here at six. Dad will be here. Do not bring Kyle. Do not bring any device related to TenderTrace. Bring your laptop and every contract, email, payment record, and message you have about the project. If you lie once, you leave.
Daniel responded:
Okay.
Then:
Thank you.
Emma disliked the gratitude.
It made her feel as though she had done something kind.
She had not.
At 5:58, Daniel’s car pulled into Robert’s driveway.
He sat inside for nearly three minutes.
Emma watched from the kitchen window.
Robert watched from beside her.
“Don’t hit him,” she said.
“I’m getting tired of that joke.”
“It isn’t a joke.”
“I know.”
Daniel came in carrying a laptop bag.
The mark on his cheek had faded to yellow-red.
Robert saw it and looked away.
Daniel looked first at Emma, then toward the bassinets.
“Can I—”
“Wash your hands.”
He went to the sink.
Emma watched him use soap.
Twenty seconds.
Rinse.
Dry.
A thing he had done a thousand times.
He approached the bassinet.
Noah was awake.
Daniel bent and lifted him.
His face broke.
Not theatrically.
His mouth tightened, and he pressed his lips to Noah’s hair.
“Hey, buddy.”
Emma looked away.
Love did not disappear because trust did.
That would have been easier.
Daniel sat on the sofa with Noah against his chest.
For ten minutes they spoke only about the babies.
Eli had been constipated.
Noah had started making a clicking sound while feeding.
Daniel asked whether Emma had called the pediatrician.
She had.
The nurse said to monitor it.
The conversation was so normal that Robert eventually stood and went to make coffee, muttering something about insanity.
Then Noah fell asleep.
Daniel put him down.
Emma said, “Laptop.”
May you like
He opened it.
TenderTrace existed mostly as a collection of folders, emails, shared documents, invoices, and chat logs.
