Chapter 7: The Second Visit
My father was in the hallway when Derek stepped off the elevator.
I heard it before I saw it — the particular silence that falls when two men who have already said what needs to be said find themselves in the same corridor again.
Then my father's voice, quiet and without heat: "You were told to call your attorney."
"I don't need an attorney," Derek said.
"I need five minutes with my wife."
"She's resting."
"Robert, I'm not asking your permission.
She is my wife.
Legally, right now, tonight, she is still my wife, and I have every right—"
"To what?" My father's voice did not rise.
"To come back here at one in the morning after leaving her on a highway?
To finish the conversation Frank interrupted?"
"I want to talk to Willow."
"Then you can talk to her through Frank Dellinger."
A pause.
Footsteps.
Derek's voice moved — he was walking toward my door.
"I'm going in," he said.
"Derek."
The door opened.
He looked different than he had an hour ago.
The calculation was gone.
What was left underneath it was something rawer — not remorse, but the specific panic of a man who has watched a situation escape his control and cannot locate the lever that will pull it back.
He saw the notepad on my tray table.
His eyes moved to it, then away.
"I need you to hear me," he said.
He did not come closer.
He stood just inside the door, my father's hand visible on the frame behind him.
"Whatever Frank told you, whatever your father has been saying — Willow, you know me.
You know who I am."
"I do," I said.
Something in my voice made him stop.
"I know you financed the Tahoe through the company credit union," I said.
"I know you told the pharmacist I'd be fine.
I know there was no party.
I know Chloe Marsh resigned three weeks ago to run an LLC that was going to receive the proceeds from the sale of our house." I looked at him.
"I know you went to her apartment tonight and asked her to sign something.
I know she didn't."
The color left his face.
"She called you," he said.
"She texted me."
His hand found the door frame.
"Whatever she told you, she's covering herself.
She's as involved in this as I am.
She knew exactly what—"
"She says she didn't know the house was mine too."
"That's a lie."
"Maybe." I kept my voice level.
"Frank will sort that out.
She's agreed to speak with him."
Derek stared at me.
For a moment he looked like the man from the rehearsal dinner — young, ambitious, certain that the right combination of charm and confidence could open any door.
Then that version of him collapsed, and what was underneath was just tired and frightened and smaller than I had ever seen him.
"Willow," he said.
"If you do this — if you go through with whatever your father is planning — I lose everything.
The promotion.
The house.
The—"
"You left me on a highway," I said.
"I know."
"I was bleeding through my bandages."
"I know." His voice cracked slightly on the second word.
"I know that.
I panicked.
I have never—" He stopped.
Pressed his hand flat against the door frame.
"I have never done anything like that before.
You know that."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"You told me to crawl," I said quietly.
"That wasn't panic.
That was a choice."
He had no answer for that.
My father's hand moved on the door frame.
"Derek.
It's time to go."
Derek looked at me once more.
His mouth opened.
Then it closed.
He walked out.
My father stepped into the room, pulled the door shut behind him, and stood with his back against it for a moment.
Then he crossed to the chair, sat down, and picked up my hand again without saying anything.
"He's going to do something," I said.
"Before Frank can move on the property."
"Frank filed an emergency injunction two hours ago," my father said.
"The transfer is frozen."
I let out a breath I had been holding since I read the property document six weeks ago.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"You needed to look at him without knowing," my father said.
"I wanted you to see his face when he realized it was already done."
I thought about Derek's expression when I listed everything I knew.
The color leaving his face.
His hand on the door frame.
"Did you see it?" my father asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Good." He settled back in the chair.
"Now sleep.
You have a long recovery ahead, and you're going to need your strength for what comes next."
"What comes next?"
He looked at me with the same steady certainty he had carried into this room three hours ago, in his misaligned shirt and unevenly laced boots, having driven two hours and forty minutes without stopping to comb his hair.
May you like
"He's going to try one more thing," my father said.
"They always do."
