Chương 8
Our anniversary photo from Cape Cod sat on a console table there.
Evan with windblown hair.
Me wearing his jacket because I had forgotten mine.
Both of us smiling.
“Then?”
“Then the firm got worse.”
Of course it did.
Every delay had found a new excuse.
“Did you know about the debt?”
“Some.”
“How much?”
“He said around sixty.”
I exhaled through my nose.
“Of course.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
She was quiet for a second.
“He told me the company was worth a lot more than it was.”
I almost said, welcome to the club.
Instead I asked, “What did he give you the eighteen-five for?”
Marissa inhaled sharply.
“So you know about that.”
“I know enough to ask.”
“It wasn’t eighteen-five to me.”
“How much?”
“Twelve.”
“What happened to the rest?”
“I don’t know.”
That mattered.
I sat straighter.
“Was the twelve cash?”
“Transfer.”
“To your personal account?”
“Yes.”
“For rent?”
“Partly.”
“What else?”
She did not answer immediately.
Then she said, “My insurance changed.”
“Because you went on leave?”
“No.”
“Why did it change?”
“I quit.”
That surprised me.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
“You quit the firm?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“He wanted me moved off projects.”
“Because of the pregnancy?”
“He said because people were talking.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
“Were they?”
“Yes.”
“About the affair?”
“About favoritism.”
“What kind?”
“Assignments.”
“Bonuses?”
Another pause.
“Yes.”
I stood again.
My body had decided standing was necessary even though my mind had not.
“Did he approve bonuses for you?”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Two.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You know.”
She was quiet long enough to confirm that.
“About eleven total.”
I closed my eyes.
Eleven thousand.
Plus twelve.
Maybe more.
“What did you do at the firm?”
“Interior coordination, mostly.”
“Were you qualified for the bonuses?”
Her voice changed.
Defensive.
“Yes.”
“I’m not accusing you.”
“You kind of are.”
“You slept with the person approving them.”
“That doesn’t mean I didn’t earn them.”
“No.”
I let that sit.
“You’re right.”
She breathed out.
“I worked sixty-hour weeks during the Cambridge project.”
“I believe you.”
“That makes this worse.”
“Yes.”
“I hate that.”
“So do I.”
For a few seconds, neither of us spoke.
It was strange talking to the woman I was supposed to hate.
Stranger that some part of me understood exactly why she sounded angry when I questioned her work.
Being betrayed did not make her incompetent.
Being complicit did not make every part of her false.
People were inconvenient that way.
“Why did you call me?”
I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not true.”
She exhaled.
“I think he lied to both of us about money.”
That got my full attention.
“What do you mean?”
“The apartment deposit.”
“What apartment?”
Her silence lasted too long.
Then she said, “He leased a place in Cambridge.”
My stomach dropped.
“For you?”
“For us.”
I gripped the back of the chair.
“When?”
“August.”
“Whose name is on it?”
“His.”
“Who paid the deposit?”
“He said he did.”
“How much?”
“Six thousand.”
The missing part of the eighteen-five.
I closed my eyes.
Twelve to Marissa.
Six for an apartment.
Eighteen total.
The transfer had been eighteen-five.
Close enough for fees, furniture, or some other expense.
“Have you moved in?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He kept delaying.”
I almost laughed.
That was Evan’s real talent.
Not architecture.
Delay.
Promises structured just far enough ahead that nobody could prove they were broken yet.
Marissa said, “He told me tonight was supposed to change everything.”
I opened my eyes.
“How?”
“He said after dinner, he was going home with you, telling you everything, then leaving.”
I stared at the kitchen.
His sweater.
His shoes.
His mail on the counter.
“Did he bring a bag?”
“I don’t know.”
I thought about the morning.
No suitcase.
No box.
Nothing.
“He wasn’t leaving tonight.”
She did not answer.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
The words surprised me.
“For what?”
“For being the one who had to tell you.”
A small broken sound came through the phone.
Then she said, “He’s calling me.”
“Are you going to answer?”
“I don’t know.”
I looked at my phone screen.
Another call was coming through too.
Evan.
Of course.
“Do whatever you need to do.”
“Natalie?”
“Yes?”
“If he comes to your house, don’t believe him when he says the apartment was for work.”
I went still.
“He told you that?”
“Once.”
“And you believed him?”
“For about a day.”
I looked toward the front window.
Headlights slowed outside.
My pulse jumped.
The car continued down the street.
Marissa whispered, “I really am sorry.”
Then the call ended.
I stood in the kitchen for another minute.
Maybe two.
Then I opened my laptop.
Not because I was calm.
Not because I had a plan.
Because there are moments when panic needs a task.
I pulled up our joint accounts.
Then the mortgage.
Then every linked credit account I could find.
I changed the password on my personal email first.
Then my banking login.
Then the cloud storage account where Evan and I kept tax files, contracts, mortgage documents, and scans of important paperwork.
I downloaded copies of everything I could access.
The business guarantee.
Three years of statements.
Tax returns.
Transfer records.
The original loan agreement.
The amended credit facility appeared under a folder marked 2026 FINANCING.
My fingers froze over the trackpad.
I opened it.
There was my name.
Natalie Monroe.
Electronic signature.
Dated June 4.
I had been in Chicago on June 4 for a client meeting.
I knew because my flight had been delayed six hours and Evan had complained about having to feed the neighbor’s cat.
I scrolled to the verification page.
Email authorization.
My email address.
Device information.
An IP address.
I did not understand enough to know what it proved.
I understood enough to know I had never signed it.
At 10:48, I searched for divorce attorneys.
May you like
At 10:51, I stopped because choosing one from a website felt impossible.
At 10:53, I called my friend Leah.
