Chapter 4: What Cassie Knew
The coffee shop on Birchwood was small and warm and smelled like cinnamon.
I got there five minutes early.
I ordered a coffee I didn't really want and sat at a corner table facing the door.
Cassie walked in at exactly ten.
I recognized her before she introduced herself — not because I'd seen her before, but because of the way she scanned the room.
Careful.
Like she'd been thinking about this meeting for a while and was checking that it was safe.
She was younger than me.
Maybe twenty-eight.
Dark hair pulled back.
She sat down across from me and wrapped both hands around the coffee she'd brought in with her.
"Thank you for coming," she said.
"You said you know something about my husband."
She nodded.
She didn't look away.
"I've worked with Derek for two years.
We're on the same team." She paused.
"Six months ago, he started telling people at work that he was basically a single dad."
I felt the air go out of me.
"What?"
"He told people you weren't coping.
That you were struggling with the babies and he was doing most of the work at home.
He said it a lot.
To our manager.
To people on our floor." She looked down at her coffee.
"He made it sound like he was holding everything together."
"He hasn't changed a single diaper since they were born."
"I know." She looked back up.
"I didn't believe him.
Something felt off.
But I didn't say anything because it wasn't my business." She hesitated.
"Until last week."
"What happened last week?"
"He asked our manager for a promotion.
A big one — senior project lead.
And in the meeting, he used it again.
He said he was managing a difficult home situation, that his wife wasn't well, that he'd been carrying the family largely on his own.
He used it as evidence of his character.
His resilience." Her jaw tightened.
"He got the promotion."
The table felt very still.
"He used me," I said.
"He used me being injured and exhausted as a — as a character reference for himself."
"Yes."
"While refusing to help me."
"Yes."
I sat back in my chair.
My cast rested on the table between us.
I looked at it.
Five weeks in plaster.
Five weeks of one-armed nappy changes and bottle warming and rocking two babies in a single arm while the other hung useless at my side.
Five weeks of Derek coming home, walking past me, and sitting down in front of the television.
"Why are you telling me this?" I asked.
Cassie's hands tightened around her cup.
"Because last Thursday, he told someone in our office that you'd been diagnosed with postpartum depression and that he was worried you weren't fit to be alone with the babies."
The room didn't spin.
I didn't cry.
I just felt something go very cold and very clear inside me.
"He said what?"
"He's been building a story, and I don't think he's done building it." She leaned forward slightly.
"I don't know what he's planning.
But I thought you should know what he's been saying before — before it goes any further."
I looked at her for a long moment.
"Does he know you're here?"
"No.
And I'd like to keep it that way for now." She slid a folded piece of paper across the table.
"I wrote down the dates.
What he said.
Who was in the room.
In case you need it."
I picked up the paper.
I didn't open it yet.
"Thank you," I said.
My voice came out steadier than I expected.
I drove back to my mom's house with the folded paper on the passenger seat.
I didn't turn on the radio.
I didn't call anyone.
I just drove and thought about the word *unfit* and what a man might do with a word like that when he'd already spent six months laying the groundwork.
My mom was in the garden when I pulled up.
She took one look at my face.
"Come inside," she said.
"Tell me everything."
I told her.
When I finished, she sat very still across the kitchen table.
May you like
Then she said, quietly:
"We need to call a solicitor."
