Chương 7
“How do you know?”
“My company does contract disputes.”
She kept reading.
“This agreement says you acknowledged a full accounting of marital assets.”
“I didn’t receive anything.”
“Did you initial this page?”
“Yes.”
“Were the attachments there?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
Rachel stared at the screen.
Then my phone buzzed in her hand.
The unknown Los Angeles number again.
This time the message contained a photograph.
It showed Ethan at a hotel desk, leaning over a stack of documents while another man pointed to a signature page.
The timestamp in the corner was from the previous afternoon.
Rachel enlarged the image.
Her face tightened.
“Who is that with him?”
I looked.
I had seen the man before.
Not often, but enough.
“Daniel Cross.”
“Who?”
“Ethan’s chief financial officer.”
The next message arrived before either of us spoke.
He moved the money before he asked you to sign.
Rachel read the message twice, then looked at me with the careful expression people use when they are trying not to frighten someone who is already frightened enough.
“What money?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not a small answer.”
“I know.”
She handed the phone back.
“Did Ethan ever talk to you about trusts, holding companies, separate property, anything like that?”
“He talked about finances the way surgeons talk about blood.”
“What does that mean?”
“As if I’d be better off not seeing it.”
Rachel’s mouth tightened.
“That is not charming.”
“I used to think it was.”
The admission tasted worse than I expected.
I looked toward the window.
Morning had begun whitening the buildings across the avenue.
For years, I had confused being protected with being excluded.
Ethan handled taxes.
Ethan handled investments.
Ethan handled the mortgage, the insurance, the accountants, the household staff, and every envelope that arrived with numbers printed on it.
Whenever I tried to participate, he kissed my forehead and told me not to turn our marriage into a quarterly meeting.
At first it had felt generous.
Later it had become easier not to argue.
Rachel picked up the separation agreement again.
“This says the financial disclosure schedules identify all major jointly held assets.”
“I never saw them.”
“Did you read the whole agreement?”
“Yes.”
She gave me a look.
“I read the parts without numbers.”
“That is not the whole agreement.”
“I had just learned my husband was leaving me for someone whose face is on billboards.”
“That would affect concentration.”
“Thank you.”
“It still matters.”
“I know.”
She exhaled and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Do you know a divorce attorney?”
“Not personally.”
“You know wealthy people.”
“Apparently I knew people who liked Ethan.”
“Different category.”
My phone buzzed again.
We both looked at it.
The unknown number had sent another message.
There is an account in your name.
Rachel leaned closer.
“What account?”
Another message arrived.
Don’t call Ethan about it.
Then a third.
He doesn’t know I contacted you.
Rachel sat back.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“I officially hate this.”
“You hated it before.”
“I had room.”
I stared at the number.
Every instinct told me to call.
Every recent lesson told me not to.
“Can we trace it?”
“Not by staring at it.”
“Helpful.”
“I’m here for emotional support.”
“You brought underwear.”
“Premium emotional support.”
I laughed again and regretted it immediately.
Rachel reached for the water cup and held it while I drank.
“You need a lawyer before you answer whoever this is.”
“I need to see my babies.”
“You can do both.”
“I can barely sit upright.”
“Then I’ll make calls.”
“No.”
Her expression changed.
“No?”
“I’ve spent five years letting other people handle things because they said it was easier.”
“Claire, I’m not Ethan.”
“I know.”
“That was a low blow.”
“I know.”
Rachel folded the hospital blanket between her fingers.
For a moment I thought she would argue.
Instead she nodded.
“Fine.”
The lack of resistance annoyed me.
“You can still help.”
“I was waiting for that.”
“I need someone good.”
“At divorce?”
“At finding out what I apparently own.”
“That sounds like divorce with extra steps.”
She opened her laptop.
“I know one attorney through work.”
“Does she represent people like me?”
“What does that mean?”
“People who accidentally signed documents they didn’t understand while their billionaire husband was moving assets.”
Rachel stared at me.
“You hear yourself, right?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Her name is Dana Feld.”
“Is she terrifying?”
“She once made our CEO apologize to a conference table.”
“That’ll do.”
Rachel began typing.
I watched her for a minute, then looked back at the messages.
There is an account in your name.
I tried to think of every account I had ever opened.
Checking.
Savings.
A retirement account from my old consulting firm.
A college investment account my father had started with eight hundred dollars and stubborn optimism.
Nothing that could explain Daniel Cross moving money in Los Angeles.
“Could it be identity theft?”
Rachel kept typing.
“Sure.”
“That sounded reassuring.”
“It wasn’t.”
A knock interrupted us.
A woman in navy scrubs entered with a breast pump and several plastic pieces arranged in a clear bag.
“Good morning.”
I stared at the equipment.
She smiled sympathetically.
“I’m from lactation.”
Rachel closed her laptop halfway.
The woman introduced herself as Janice and began explaining pumping schedules for mothers with premature infants.
My mind rebelled at the absurdity.
Somewhere, money had been moved in my name.
My husband was flying across the country.
An unknown person was sending warnings.
My daughter was on a ventilator.
And Janice wanted to discuss flange sizes.
Then I realized my body had obligations that none of those crises cared about.
So I listened.
Not well.
But I listened.
Janice showed me how to assemble everything.
Rachel pretended to become fascinated by the ceiling.
“You can leave,” I told her.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re staring at a sprinkler.”
“It’s a good sprinkler.”
“Go get coffee.”
“I don’t need coffee.”
“Rachel.”
“Fine.”
She stood too quickly and nearly knocked over the chair.
May you like
At the door, she looked back.
“I’m getting you something too.”
