Chương 12
"No, I mean some of this isn't even possible."
Naomi tapped one paragraph.
"Which part?"
"The savings account."
I read it again.
"He says I withdrew eighteen thousand dollars on Monday."
"Did you?"
"I haven't had access to that account in months."
"Can you prove that?"
"Probably through login records."
"Good."
She tapped another paragraph.
"The knife?"
"There wasn't one."
"Any argument two weeks ago?"
"Yes."
Mom shifted beside me.
Naomi noticed.
"What happened?"
I hesitated.
"We fought about my paycheck."
"Define fought."
"I yelled."
"Did he?"
"Eventually."
"Did you touch him?"
"No."
"Throw anything?"
I looked away.
Naomi waited.
"I threw a mug."
Mom inhaled.
"At him?"
"No."
"Where?"
"At the sink."
"Did it break?"
"Yes."
"Was anyone close to it?"
"No."
Naomi wrote that down.
"I don't like it, but I like surprises less."
"I was angry."
"You're allowed to be angry."
"Judges are allowed to dislike broken mugs."
Her tone stayed matter-of-fact.
"Anything else from that night?"
I stared at the affidavit again.
Mason had written that I became irrational after he asked me to seek psychiatric care.
That part had roots in reality.
Not truth.
Roots.
"He told me he was going to have me committed."
Mom turned sharply.
"What?"
I kept reading because looking at her felt harder.
"He said if I didn't stop questioning the accounts, he'd tell people I was a danger to myself."
Naomi's pen stopped.
"When was this?"
"That same night."
"Exact date?"
I searched backward.
"The Tuesday before last."
"Any messages afterward?"
"Maybe."
"What kind?"
"He texted me from downstairs."
"What did he say?"
"I don't remember exactly."
Naomi looked at me.
"Did you respond?"
"Yes."
"How?"
I closed my eyes.
"I wrote that I hated him."
Mom's hand moved toward mine, then stopped.
Naomi said, "Anything else?"
"I said I wished I'd never married him."
"Anything that could be read as a threat?"
"I don't think so."
"Don't think."
"I don't remember."
"Better."
She circled something on the affidavit.
"Then we preserve the thread and let the actual words speak."
I looked at the signature at the bottom.
Mason's handwriting was compressed and slanted, the same handwriting on birthday cards and grocery lists.
He had sworn that these things were true.
That detail affected me more than I expected.
Lies spoken in a kitchen could evaporate.
Lies signed beneath a declaration remained.
"When is the hearing?"
"Tomorrow afternoon."
"Tomorrow?"
"Temporary orders move fast."
"I can't even walk."
"We'll request accommodations."
Mom frowned.
"She should not have to go anywhere."
Naomi closed the folder halfway.
"Susan, I agree with you emotionally."
"What does that mean?"
"It means emotionally is not the system we're dealing with."
Mom bristled.
I squeezed her fingers.
"I'm going."
She turned to me.
"Hannah."
"If he gets to sit in a courtroom and describe me, I want to be there."
Naomi watched me.
"Wanting to be there isn't enough."
"What else do you need?"
"To follow my instructions when he starts lying."
"I can."
"You've known me six hours."
"And I've already watched you argue with a federal investigator because he wouldn't agree with your conclusion."
"State investigator."
"Not the point."
Despite everything, I almost smiled.
Naomi leaned closer.
"Mason may say things designed to provoke you."
"I know."
"He may talk about the miscarriage."
My smile disappeared.
"He may say you were unstable."
"I know."
"He may use private things you told him in your marriage."
I looked down at my hands.
"I know."
"If you react, we deal with the reaction."
Her voice softened.
"But don't confuse composure with silence."
I looked at her.
"What does that mean?"
"It means you tell the truth when it's your turn."
She opened the folder again.
"You do not perform sanity for him."
Those words stayed with me after she left.
By noon, the hospital had started discharge planning.
I was not going home.
That part was settled.
The question was whether I would go to my parents' hotel for one night, then return with them to North Carolina, or remain in Atlanta while Naomi sought an order granting me temporary exclusive use of the house.
I hated both choices.
Going with my parents felt safe and humiliating.
Returning to the house felt necessary and impossible.
Camille arrived with crutches I could not use well enough to trust.
"We're trying a walker."
"I am thirty-three."
"And walkers don't check birth certificates."
"I hate you again."
"That's fine."
She helped me stand.
Pain pulsed down my leg even though I kept weight off it.
My arms trembled against the walker.
"Small step."
"I know how walking works."
"Apparently not today."
I moved.
Six inches.
Then another six.
By the time I reached the bathroom door, I was sweating.
Camille stood behind me without touching.
I resented her for that too.
When I finally made it back to the bed, I was exhausted.
"How am I supposed to go to court like this?"
"You don't walk there for style points."
I lowered myself onto the mattress.
"What if I fall?"
"You might."
I stared at her.
"That's comforting."
"You asked."
She adjusted the walker.
"People fall while learning."
"Then what?"
"Then we figure out why and try again."
The sentence was so simple it irritated me.
Later, after Camille left, I kept thinking about it.
Not courage.
Not resilience.
Just mechanics.
Fall.
Figure out why.
Try again.
At two, Janet from work arrived carrying a paper bag from a deli and an expression that suggested she expected security to throw her out.
"I brought turkey on wheat."
I looked at the bag.
"Why?"
"You always eat turkey on wheat when you're stressed."
"I do not."
"You absolutely do."
Mom said, "She does."
I looked between them.
"Apparently everyone knows my sandwich habits except me."
May you like
Janet pulled a chair close.
She was my supervisor, not my friend exactly, although we had spent five years discussing deadlines, incompetent software updates, and the fact that the office microwave smelled permanently like fish.
