Chương 9
“That seems unfair.”
“It usually is.”
She asked about my medical history, medications, previous pregnancies, and whether I felt safe at home.
That question caught me.
“Yes.”
Then I corrected myself.
“I mean, I’m not staying at home right now.”
She looked up.
“Do you feel safe where you’re staying?”
“Yes.”
“Do you feel threatened by your husband?”
I hesitated.
Samuel stared determinedly at the floor.
“Not physically.”
The nurse nodded.
“Okay.”
She did not make me explain.
That small kindness almost made me cry.
An obstetric resident came in twenty minutes later, introduced herself as Dr. Patel, and examined me.
I hated every second of it.
“You’re one centimeter,” she said afterward.
My heart jumped.
“That means labor?”
“Not necessarily.”
“But I’m dilated.”
“At thirty-four weeks, we pay attention.”
She pulled off her gloves.
“We’re going to hydrate you, run some tests, and watch for cervical change.”
“How long?”
“Long enough to know whether this is settling down.”
I looked at Samuel.
He had already opened his phone.
“I can cancel tomorrow.”
“You’re not staying overnight in a chair.”
“I’ve slept in worse.”
“When?”
“Law school.”
“That was fifty years ago.”
“Forty-six.”
Dr. Patel smiled despite herself.
My phone vibrated again.
This time I took it.
Twelve missed calls.
Gavin.
Three from Bernice.
Two from Paisley.
One voicemail from Elena.
I opened Elena’s first.
“Call me when you can.”
Her voice was calm.
Too calm.
“I found something in the vendor file that doesn’t make sense.”
The message ended.
I played it twice.
Samuel watched me.
“Business?”
“Yes.”
“Can it wait?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means it can.”
I looked at him.
“You’re enjoying telling me what to do.”
“Immensely.”
The nurse started an IV.
I flinched.
“Sorry.”
“It’s fine.”
I hated needles.
Gavin knew that.
At every blood draw during the pregnancy, he had stood on my left side because I preferred not to see the tubes.
For a stupid moment, I pictured him walking through the hospital doors, worried and breathless, dropping every lie on the floor because our baby mattered more.
Then I remembered he did not know where I was.
I had made sure of that.
The thought left me relieved and lonely at exactly the same time.
At nine-thirty, the contractions slowed.
At ten-fifteen, they spaced farther apart.
At eleven, Dr. Patel checked me again.
“No change.”
I exhaled so hard my shoulders hurt.
“Is that good?”
“It’s very good.”
She wanted me there another hour.
I nodded.
Samuel went to find coffee.
I finally called Elena.
She answered immediately.
“You okay?”
“I’m at the hospital.”
There was a beat.
“What happened?”
“Contractions.”
“Are you in labor?”
“Not right now.”
“Jesus.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re banned from saying that.”
I looked toward the curtain.
“What did you find?”
“You really want to do this now?”
“Yes.”
Elena sighed.
“Fine.”
Paper clicked near her.
“Remember the forty-thousand-dollar transfer?”
“Yes.”
“The authorization log has a device identifier attached to it.”
I sat straighter.
“Whose device?”
“That’s the thing.”
“What thing?”
“It’s not yours.”
My heart sped up again.
“Gavin’s?”
“I can’t prove that yet.”
“What can you prove?”
“The authentication request originated from a tablet.”
“Our shared tablet?”
“Possibly.”
I looked at the hospital blanket across my knees.
The same tablet.
The same one that had shown me Paisley’s message.
“How?”
“The banking portal logged the device class and browser.”
“Can Denise identify it?”
“She’s working on it.”
“Does that prove he used my credentials?”
“No.”
The answer irritated me.
“Then what does it prove?”
“That your phone wasn’t necessarily the device used to initiate the transfer.”
“But two-factor goes to my phone.”
“Right.”
“So he could have started it on the tablet and used my phone for the code.”
“That’s one possibility.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“What doesn’t make sense?”
Elena became quiet.
“The timing.”
“What about it?”
“The transfer happened at 11:42 p.m.”
“So?”
“Three weeks ago, Tuesday.”
I tried to place the date.
Then I remembered.
“That was my childbirth class.”
“Yes.”
I had gone without Gavin.
He claimed a job-site issue had come up.
I had sat alone beside couples practicing breathing exercises and told everyone he was working.
“What time did the class end?”
Elena asked.
“Nine.”
“Where did you go after?”
“Home.”
“Anyone with you?”
“No.”
“Did you use the tablet?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Did Gavin come home?”
The question pressed against something.
I stared at the monitor.
“I fell asleep.”
“Where?”
“On the couch.”
The memory came in pieces.
My shoes under the coffee table.
A documentary playing quietly.
A half-empty glass of water.
Gavin waking me sometime after midnight.
Or maybe not waking me.
His hand on my shoulder.
His voice saying, Go upstairs, babe.
I swallowed.
“He was home by midnight.”
“So he had access to the tablet and your phone.”
“Yes.”
“That still doesn’t prove he made the transfer.”
“I know.”
“Madeline.”
“What?”
“You sound like you’re about to do something.”
“I’m lying in a hospital bed.”
“You have done reckless things with Wi-Fi before.”
I smiled despite myself.
“What else?”
“There’s a file attached to the Stonebridge payment record.”
“What kind?”
“A PDF invoice.”
“For what?”
“Design services.”
My stomach tightened for a reason unrelated to labor.
“Lauren.”
“Yes.”
“Forty thousand dollars for design?”
“Not exactly.”
“What exactly?”
“Twenty-two thousand was listed as design consultation.”
“And the rest?”
“Property deposit.”
I stopped breathing.
“What property?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Stonebridge is a house.”
“That’s what Gavin told you?”
“Yes.”
“I found an address in one of the backup invoices.”
I reached for the pen on the tray.
“Give it to me.”
“Madeline.”
“Give me the address.”
She did.
I wrote it on the back of a hospital meal menu.
An address in a new development forty minutes outside the city.
“Who owns it?”
“County records show Stonebridge Residential Services.”
“So Gavin.”
“Indirectly.”
“When was it purchased?”
“Six months ago.”
That date landed harder than the amount.
May you like
Six months ago.
Before the messages I had found.
