Chapter 6: The Morning He Stopped Smiling
The day after Christmas, Daniel's phone rang at 7:12 a.m.
He was in the kitchen.
I was at the top of the stairs.
I heard him answer, heard the shift in his voice — the way it dropped half a register and went flat.
"Not now," he said.
"I told you — not yet."
A pause.
"Vanessa, I said I would handle it."
Another pause.
Longer.
"What do you mean she knows?"
I walked back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.
Three minutes later he appeared in the doorway.
He had aged, somehow, between the kitchen and the top of the stairs.
The ease he had been carrying all weekend — the relaxed shoulders, the easy laugh — was gone.
"We need to talk," he said.
"All right."
He came in and closed the door.
He didn't sit.
He stood in the center of the room with his hands at his sides, and I could see him choosing between several versions of what he was about to say.
"I know this isn't what you want to hear," he started.
"Then say it anyway."
He looked at the floor.
"Vanessa and I — it's been going on for about eight months.
I know that's not — I know there's no good way to say that."
"No," I said.
"There isn't."
"I wasn't trying to hurt you.
Things between us had been difficult for a long time, and I—"
"Daniel." I kept my voice level.
"I'm not interested in the explanation right now.
I want to know about the apartment."
His expression shifted.
Just slightly.
"What apartment?"
"The one on North Halsted.
The lease you signed two months ago."
The color left his face.
"How did you—"
"And the financial disclosure form.
The one where Vanessa listed you as her spouse and included your income as a household contribution on a joint credit application."
He sat down on the chair by the window.
He didn't seem to decide to sit — his legs simply stopped holding him.
"That wasn't — I didn't know she was going to do that."
"Your name is on the document."
"I signed the lease.
I didn't sign the disclosure.
I didn't even know about the credit application." He ran a hand over his face.
"Emily, I swear to you, I didn't know she did that."
"Then you have a problem," I said.
"Because your name is attached to a fraudulent document submitted to a lender.
And whether you knew or not, you'll need to explain it."
He stared at me.
"I have copies of everything," I said.
"The hotel receipts.
The jewelry charge.
The lease.
The disclosure.
The photograph from the mall.
Your text message." I paused.
"I've also spoken with a financial attorney."
"You — when did you—"
"I've been busy."
He stood up.
The shock was giving way to something else now — something tighter, more defensive.
"Emily, if you're thinking about going to the bank, or making this into some kind of legal—"
"I'm not thinking about anything yet," I said.
"I'm telling you what I know.
What happens next depends on you."
He looked at me for a long moment.
Then he walked out of the room.
I heard him on the stairs.
Heard the front door.
Heard his car.
Margaret knocked softly and opened the door.
"I heard," she said.
"I know."
She came and sat beside me on the edge of the bed.
We didn't speak for a moment.
"He'll call Vanessa," she said.
"And then he'll call someone he thinks can help him."
"Let him."
She put her hand over mine.
"You did well."
"I haven't done anything yet."
May you like
"Yes," she said quietly.
"You have."
