Chương 8
“What the hell?”
Sarah picked up a framed photograph.
Nathan and Emily at a baseball game.
“She removed this?”
Nathan remembered the frame had once been on a bookshelf.
Victoria said the room looked cluttered.
He had agreed.
He sat on the concrete floor.
Sarah crouched beside him.
“Okay.”
Nathan laughed bitterly.
“Okay?”
“No. Not okay. I mean don’t spiral.”
He opened Emily’s original box.
Letters.
Photos.
A scarf.
Hospital paperwork.
A notebook.
Nathan stared at it.
He did not remember the notebook.
Sarah picked it up.
“Was this hers?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t remember seeing it.”
Nathan opened the cover.
Emily Miller.
Her handwriting.
He turned several pages.
Ordinary notes.
Shopping lists.
Work reminders.
A recipe.
Then later entries.
The final months before her death.
Nathan’s chest tightened.
He closed it.
“I can’t.”
Sarah nodded.
“Then don’t.”
He placed it back.
On top of the notebook lay an envelope.
His name.
Nathan.
He stared at it.
Sarah looked over.
“Was that there before?”
“I don’t know.”
The envelope had been opened.
Nathan pulled out a folded piece of paper.
Not Emily’s handwriting.
Victoria’s.
He read the first line.
Nathan—
I found this while sorting the box. I know I should have told you immediately.
The rest explained that Victoria had discovered the notebook the previous year.
She had read portions of it.
She had found entries about Nathan and Emily’s marriage.
Not perfect entries.
Not romantic memorial material.
Arguments.
Money.
Nathan working too much.
Emily feeling invisible after Grace was born.
One entry described Nathan sleeping in the guest room after an argument.
Another said Emily had wondered whether they would still be married in five years.
Victoria’s handwritten note stopped midway through a page.
There was no date.
No evidence Nathan had ever seen it.
Sarah read over his shoulder.
“Oh.”
Nathan sat back against the wall.
Victoria had found something that contradicted the sacred version of Emily living inside their house.
And hidden it.
Not because it damaged Emily.
Because it damaged Nathan.
Or perhaps because it gave Victoria ammunition she had been afraid to use.
Sarah asked, “What are you thinking?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know I’m going to ban that sentence soon.”
Nathan handed her the note.
“She wrote this and never gave it to me.”
“Looks like it.”
“Why keep it?”
Sarah looked around the unit.
“Maybe she came here to give it to you and couldn’t.”
“Or she wanted proof she tried.”
“You’re doing it.”
“What?”
“Turning every possibility into the worst one.”
Nathan looked down.
Sarah folded the letter again.
“Victoria did enough real things. You don’t need imaginary ones.”
He nodded.
They packed Emily’s box into Sarah’s car.
Nathan left the others.
That night, he called a family-law attorney recommended by a colleague.
The attorney could see him the following morning.
Nathan slept on Sarah’s couch.
At two, Grace came downstairs carrying a blanket.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.”
“Nightmare?”
She shrugged.
Nathan lifted the blanket.
Grace crawled onto the couch beside him.
She was too big to fit comfortably.
Neither mentioned it.
After a while she said, “Are you divorcing Victoria?”
Nathan stared at the dark television screen.
“I don’t know yet.”
“Do you still love her?”
He almost told her that was an adult question.
Then he decided it was simply a question.
“Yes.”
Grace was quiet.
“Are you mad?”
“Yes.”
“Can you love somebody when you’re mad?”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Can you leave somebody when you love them?”
Nathan looked at the ceiling.
“Yes.”
Grace pulled the blanket higher.
“Okay.”
She fell asleep against his shoulder.
Nathan stayed awake until dawn.
The attorney’s office occupied the third floor of a brick building above a dentist.
Nathan had expected polished wood and intimidating silence.
Instead there was a broken coat hook in the waiting room and a receptionist eating yogurt at her desk.
The attorney, Monica Reed, was in her fifties and wore running shoes with a navy suit.
Nathan told her what happened.
She did not interrupt much.
When he finished, she asked for the station incident report.
He had requested a copy but did not have it yet.
She asked whether police had charged Victoria.
No.
Whether child protective services had been contacted.
The hospital social worker had made a report.
Whether Nathan intended to seek an emergency protective order.
“I don’t know.”
Monica looked at him over her glasses.
“Mr. Miller, I understand that phrase may be emotionally accurate. Legally, it can’t be your long-term strategy.”
Nathan looked down.
“What would you do?”
“I’m not you.”
“What would you advise?”
“I’d advise that a documented incident involving interference with life-saving medication is serious. I’d advise you not to leave Grace alone with Victoria while the situation is being investigated. I’d advise you to preserve messages, names of witnesses, medical records, and the station report.”
Nathan nodded.
“And I’d advise you not to interrogate your daughter.”
“I’m not.”
“Good. Keep not doing it.”
She leaned back.
“Children under stress often try to satisfy adults. If everyone keeps asking what happened, memory can become tangled with expectation.”
Nathan thought of every question he had asked.
His stomach tightened.
Monica continued.
“You should also understand something uncomfortable.”
“What?”
“The station incident can be serious without proving every concern you now have about your marriage.”
“My sister said something similar.”
“Your sister sounds useful.”
“She’ll be thrilled.”
Monica almost smiled.
Nathan asked, “If I file for divorce, what happens?”
“Depends.”
“On?”
“Everything.”
She spoke plainly.
Housing.
Finances.
Marriage length.
Assets.
Whether Victoria had any legal parental rights.
She had not adopted Grace.
That simplified some questions and complicated others emotionally.
Nathan left with a list of practical steps.
None felt dramatic.
Change account passwords.
Copy financial records.
Document shared property.
Do not empty joint accounts.
Do not destroy anything.
Do not post online.
Do not engage in hostile text arguments.
Cooperate with investigators.
Arrange child care carefully.
The ordinary machinery of crisis.
May you like
He drove back to Sarah’s.
A child welfare investigator called that afternoon.
