Chapter 8: The Morning After
I slept in the guest room.
Not because I'd decided anything.
Because I needed one night where I wasn't being looked at, or waited on, or carefully handled.
One night where the only face I had to manage was my own.
I lay in the dark and went through it in order.
The restaurant.
The envelope.
Paul's careful voice.
Carol's front door.
Richard's face when I said Sandra's name.
I didn't sleep much.
But somewhere around four in the morning I stopped trying and just let the thoughts move through.
By six I was dressed and in the kitchen making coffee.
Richard appeared in the doorway at half past.
He was already dressed too.
He'd either slept badly or not at all.
"I called Paul this morning," he said.
"He's ready when you are."
"I know."
He poured himself a coffee and stood at the counter, not sitting, not coming closer.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Richard—"
"Please." He set the mug down.
"I need to say it once, properly, and then I'll let you decide whatever you need to decide."
I sat down at the kitchen table.
Nodded.
"What I did with Sandra was wrong," he said.
"There's no version of it that isn't wrong.
I've told myself a hundred different stories about why it happened and none of them matter because none of them change what I did to you." He looked at his hands.
"I should have told you.
I chose not to because I was a coward and because I told myself I was protecting you and both of those things were true and neither of them was good enough."
The kitchen was quiet except for the coffee maker.
"I have spent two years trying to be the husband I should have been before," he said.
"The anniversary dinner.
The way I've tried to be present.
I wasn't doing it to manage you.
I was doing it because I was ashamed and I didn't know any other way to show you." He finally looked up.
"I'm sorry, Martha.
For Sandra.
For not telling you.
For all of it."
I looked at him for a long time.
"I'm not ready to talk about Sandra yet," I said.
"I need to get through today first."
"Okay."
"But I heard you."
He nodded.
That was enough for now.
At nine o'clock, Paul met us at the police station.
He'd brought the transaction record, the broker documentation, and three months of correspondence he and Richard had quietly assembled.
The detective who took our statement was a woman named Reyes, methodical and unhurried, who asked her questions in a way that made me feel like the evidence was already building itself into something solid.
When we were done, Detective Reyes looked up from her notes.
"Ms.
Simms will likely be contacted within forty-eight hours," she said.
"Given the documentation you've provided, we have enough to move forward."
"What happens to her?" I said.
"That depends on how she responds and what the full investigation turns up.
But fraud of this nature — identity theft, mortgage fraud, the amount involved — this is a serious charge."
I nodded.
Paul walked us out to the car park.
"You did the right thing," he said.
"I know," I said.
"It doesn't feel like anything yet."
"It will," Diane said.
She'd been waiting by the car.
She handed me a coffee she'd gone and bought while we were inside.
"Give it a few days."
I took the coffee.
"Thank you," I said.
"Both of you.
For what you did for Richard.
And for tonight." I paused.
"For last night.
All of it."
Diane smiled.
"You handled yourself in that restaurant better than I would have."
"I moved tables," I said.
May you like
"You stayed," she said.
"That's different."
