Chương 11
I had looked up the manual online.
For some reason, that memory made me furious.
Urgent care smelled like disinfectant and old coffee.
Dad checked in while Mom filled out a form he insisted he could complete himself.
"You can't hold the pen," she said.
"I can dictate."
"Then dictate your date of birth."
"I know my date of birth."
"Wonderful."
Beth nudged me toward the rear exit.
"Go."
Mark stood outside beside a gray sedan with his hands in his pockets.
He looked as if he had aged ten years since the wedding.
His tie was gone.
His white shirt was wrinkled and untucked on one side.
He had changed his shoes but not the rest of his clothes.
I stopped several feet away.
"Where is it?"
No greeting.
He seemed relieved by that.
He opened the trunk.
Inside sat a black canvas backpack.
He lifted out a small silver external drive.
"I didn't plug it into anything after I found the folder."
"How did you find it?"
He rubbed his jaw.
"Claire used this drive last spring."
"Used it for what?"
"Backing up photos."
He looked away.
"That's what she told me."
"Mark."
"I know."
"You said Daniel's laptop."
He nodded.
"When I got home, I was looking for proof."
"Of the affair?"
"Of anything."
His face hardened with embarrassment.
"I didn't know what I was looking for."
I understood that too well.
He continued.
"Claire's laptop was gone."
"She took it?"
"I assume."
"But the backup drive was in a drawer."
"And you searched it."
"Yeah."
No apology.
No justification.
"I found a folder labeled D Mercer."
My last name would have been Mercer by evening.
The thought came and went like nausea.
"What's inside?"
"Mostly normal stuff."
"Define normal."
"Receipts."
"Work files."
"Scans."
"Photos."
"And?"
Mark looked toward the urgent care door.
Then back at me.
"There's a spreadsheet."
I almost laughed.
"Of course there is."
He frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"What spreadsheet?"
"It has dates."
"What kind of dates?"
"Your schedule."
I stared at him.
He continued carefully.
"Work hours."
"Gym."
"Appointments."
"Times you visited your parents."
"Times you met Beth."
Beth stopped beside me.
"Excuse me?"
Mark looked at her.
"I don't know how accurate it is."
"Accurate enough to be creepy?"
"Yes."
I held out my hand.
"Give me the drive."
He did not.
"There's more."
"Then say it."
"Some of the entries have notes."
"What notes?"
He swallowed.
"Arguments."
"With Daniel?"
"Looks like it."
"How would he record that?"
"I don't know."
"What kind of notes?"
Mark glanced at Beth.
Then back at me.
"Things like unstable after wine."
My stomach clenched.
"Another says overreacted about Claire."
Beth cursed.
I said nothing.
Mark continued.
"There's one from February."
"What does it say?"
He looked miserable.
"Asked if she ever feels second best."
For a second I could not breathe.
That had been a private conversation in bed.
Daniel had asked it casually.
We had been half asleep.
I had laughed and told him everybody with an older sibling felt second best sometimes.
He had kissed my shoulder.
I had forgotten about it by morning.
He had written it down.
Beth said, "Why would he track that?"
"I don't know."
Mark finally handed me the drive.
"It's not just tracking."
"What else?"
"There's a folder called draft."
I closed my fingers around the drive.
"Draft what?"
"Messages."
"To who?"
"You."
I stared at him.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
"They look like arguments."
"Draft arguments?"
"More like scripts."
Beth stepped closer.
"Show us."
"I don't want to use my phone."
"Why?"
"Because Claire knows my passcode."
The symmetry of that was almost funny.
Nobody laughed.
I looked at the drive.
"Did you read all of it?"
"No."
"Why stop?"
His eyes met mine.
"Because I realized I was going through someone else's private life while furious."
I almost snapped at him.
Then I stopped.
That was more self-awareness than anyone else had shown all day.
"Good."
He nodded.
"Also because some of it looked like it might matter legally."
"Legally how?"
"I don't know."
"Don't guess."
"I'm not."
Beth folded her arms.
"Where can we open it safely?"
Mark pointed toward the urgent care building.
"My company has a branch office two blocks away."
"You can use it?"
"I'm still employed."
"Comforting."
He ignored that.
"I can use an isolated conference room computer."
Beth looked at me.
"Do you want to do that now?"
I looked through the glass doors.
Dad was arguing with a nurse while Mom stood behind him with the expression she used when she was about to win by exhaustion.
"Yes."
We walked.
Nobody said much.
A delivery cyclist nearly hit Mark at the corner because he stepped off the curb without looking.
The cyclist shouted something inventive.
Mark raised one hand.
"Sorry."
Beth said, "You trying to make today worse?"
"I'm open to suggestions."
That was the first thing he had said all day that sounded remotely like himself.
His office occupied the second floor of a low brick building with frosted glass doors.
The receptionist was gone for the weekend, but his key card worked.
He led us into a conference room that smelled faintly of dry-erase marker.
A framed motivational print on the wall said, Build Trust Through Transparency.
Beth stared at it.
"No."
She took it off the wall and placed it face down on the floor.
Mark almost smiled.
He booted the computer.
I sat beside him.
Beth stayed standing.
The drive appeared after a few seconds.
Mark opened the folder.
D Mercer.
Hundreds of files.
At first they were painfully ordinary.
Tax returns.
Insurance statements.
A scan of Daniel's driver's license.
Work presentations.
Receipts for furniture.
Then we found the spreadsheet.
The file name was simply A.
Column one contained dates.
Column two contained times.
Column three contained locations.
Column four contained notes.
My life was there in rows.
March 3.
Dinner with parents.
Quiet after return.
March 8.
May you like
Beth drinks.
More defensive afterward.
