Chapter 9: Aldermoor Lane
Three weeks later, Patricia called.
"His attorney has made an initial offer," she said.
"It's low.
Significantly low.
He's positioning the second account as personal savings he was entitled to manage independently."
"Can he make that argument?"
"He can make it.
It won't hold.
But it tells us what strategy he's planning." A pause.
"There's something else.
His attorney has requested a delay in the asset disclosure timeline.
They're citing complexity of the financial records."
"They want more time."
"They want more time," Patricia confirmed.
"I've opposed it.
But I want you prepared — this may take longer than we hoped."
"How much longer?"
"Months.
Possibly close to a year before we see a final settlement."
I stood at the kitchen window.
Outside, Bennett was in the backyard with a soccer ball, practicing kicks against the fence.
The same fence Daniel had put up the summer Bennett turned three.
"What do I need to do?" I asked.
"Keep your records organized.
Don't make any financial moves without telling me.
And—" She paused.
"I'd recommend you stop looking at his laptop.
You have what you need.
Anything further could complicate how the evidence is characterized."
"Understood."
"One more thing.
His attorney mentioned Lily in the disclosure documents.
Daniel is going to request that any settlement account for his ongoing financial obligations to her."
"That's fair," I said.
"She's a child."
A brief silence.
"You're handling this well."
"I don't have another option."
After I hung up, I stood at the window for a long time watching Bennett with the soccer ball.
He was narrating his own game under his breath, the way he always did when he thought no one was listening.
A full commentary.
Crowd sounds included.
I thought about Aldermoor Lane.
I had looked it up on the map a dozen times but never gone.
I didn't know why I went that afternoon.
Bennett was at school.
I had two hours.
I told myself I just needed to see it — not to do anything, not to confront anyone.
Just to make it real in a way that photographs and account statements couldn't quite manage.
It was a quiet street.
The house was a pale yellow, with a small front garden and a bicycle on the porch.
A child's bicycle.
Pink, with a white basket.
I sat in my car across the street for maybe five minutes.
The front door opened.
A woman came out — dark hair, the same woman from the photograph — carrying a bag of recycling.
She didn't see me.
She walked to the bin at the side of the house, dropped the bag in, and went back inside.
She looked tired.
She looked like someone who had been waiting a long time for something that kept not arriving.
I drove home.
I didn't know what I had expected to feel.
Anger, maybe.
Or something sharp and clarifying.
Instead I felt something quieter and harder to name.
Something close to pity, though not quite that either.
She had made her own choices.
So had Daniel.
So had I, in staying as long as I had without knowing.
None of us had come out of this clean.
When I got home, there was a voicemail from Daniel's mother.
I hadn't spoken to her since Daniel had left.
We had always been polite to each other in the careful way of people who share a family without quite sharing a world.
Her message was six seconds long.
*I heard what happened.
I want you to know I'm on your side.*
May you like
I listened to it twice.
Then I called her back.
