Chương 7
I searched the name.
No meaningful business presence appeared.
Celeste said, “That one bothered me.”
“Why?”
“They sent a deposit request last week.”
“How much?”
“Twenty-eight thousand.”
I stopped typing.
“For transportation?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Vintage cars, guest shuttles, airport transfers.”
“I never approved vintage cars.”
“I know.”
Her voice dropped.
“Chase said it was supposed to be a surprise.”
Mara mouthed something unpleasant.
“Was it paid?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because the invoice said you had already paid it directly.”
I looked at Chase’s email again.
The fake vendor list was three months old.
This was not panic over a slow real estate market.
This was planning.
“How much money did the spreadsheet show as allocated to these revised vendors?” I asked.
Celeste hesitated.
“I can total it.”
“Please.”
I heard keyboard tapping.
Then silence.
“Celeste?”
“One hundred and twelve thousand dollars.”
The number sat between us.
My wedding budget had never included anything close to that amount for those categories.
“Send me everything.”
After the call ended, I walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator.
I had no reason to.
I stared at a carton of eggs, half a lemon, sparkling water, and a container of leftover Thai food.
Then I closed the door.
Mara watched me.
“What are you doing?”
“I don’t know.”
She nodded as though that answer made sense.
A new email appeared.
This one came from Martin Bell.
He identified himself as counsel for Diane and Chase Mercer.
His message requested that I cease making “defamatory allegations” to wedding vendors and preserve all communications regarding the previous night’s “physical assault.”
He also stated that Chase had suffered injuries requiring medical evaluation.
Mara read it.
“They moved fast.”
“Yes.”
“Should we send it to Rachel?”
“Already forwarding.”
Thirty seconds later, Rachel called.
“Do not respond to Bell.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“Good.”
She paused.
“And Whitney?”
“Yes?”
“Chase filed a police report this morning.”
I felt something inside me become very still.
“For what?”
“Battery.”
Mara saw my face change.
Rachel continued carefully.
“He is alleging that you kicked him during a verbal disagreement and that he never threatened you.”
I looked toward the wall where the engagement photograph had fallen.
The cracked glass was gone now.
The empty hook remained.
“What about my report?”
“It exists.”
“And Mr. Feldman?”
“He may be relevant.”
I walked toward the hallway.
The building camera.
Chase testing the handle.
His gesture toward Luis.
Not the assault itself.
Not what happened inside.
Rachel said, “This does not mean he gets believed automatically.”
“I know.”
“But it means this is no longer only a breakup.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
The first door had closed.
Then another.
The wedding was over.
The relationship was over.
And now Chase had chosen his defense.
He was not going to explain what happened.
He was going to make me prove it.
The problem with proof is that it feels clean only before people become involved.
By three that afternoon, Rachel had warned me not to contact Chase directly, Mara had bullied me into eating half a turkey sandwich, and the detective assigned to the competing reports had left me a voicemail asking for a formal statement.
I listened to the message twice.
His name was Detective Aaron Price.
His tone was neutral enough to irritate me.
I wanted him to sound as though he already understood.
That was unreasonable.
I knew it was unreasonable.
I was unreasonable anyway.
Mara stood at the sink rinsing coffee cups.
“You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you make when reality refuses to organize itself into columns.”
“I don’t make a face.”
“You absolutely make a face.”
I called Detective Price back.
He asked whether I could come to the station the next morning.
I said yes.
Then he asked if I had preserved any texts, emails, photographs, or other relevant material.
“Yes.”
“How much?”
I looked at the laptop.
“Enough that you may regret asking.”
He paused.
“Bring what directly relates to the confrontation.”
That was fair.
I hated fair answers that limited me.
After we ended the call, Rachel emailed instructions for organizing the evidence without editorializing it.
She wanted the police report number from the prior night, screenshots of Chase’s messages, the hallway footage showing him returning and testing my door, and the names of any witnesses who had seen or heard part of the incident.
Mr. Feldman had not witnessed the raised fist.
That mattered.
He had seen me in the hallway immediately afterward.
He had heard voices.
He had seen Chase and Diane leave.
Useful was not the same as decisive.
I knew that too.
At four ten, I knocked on Mr. Feldman’s door.
He answered wearing a blue cardigan despite the apartment building being warm enough to grow orchids.
“I wondered when you’d come by.”
“I need to ask you something.”
“Come in.”
His television was showing a baseball game from the previous season.
A bowl of shelled pistachios sat beside his chair.
He lowered the volume but did not turn it off.
I explained that Chase had filed a report claiming I attacked him without provocation.
Mr. Feldman stared at me.
“Well, that’s convenient.”
“I need to know exactly what you heard and saw last night.”
“I heard yelling.”
“Whose?”
“Woman first.”
“Me or Diane?”
He frowned.
“His mother, I think.”
“Do not guess.”
He looked mildly offended.
“I’m eighty-one, not incompetent.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
“I know what you meant.”
He picked up a pistachio and cracked it between his fingers.
“I heard a woman yelling, then something broke, then you said something about a door.”
I waited.
He stared toward the television as though the answer might be in the outfield.
“Then a man called someone a bitch.”
My stomach tightened.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear what happened before the breaking glass?”
“No.”
“Did you hear Chase threaten me?”
“No.”
“Did you see him raise his fist?”
“No.”
May you like
He looked at me directly.
“You want me to have seen it.”
