Chapter 8: Cornered
Mark came home at six-fifteen.
I was in the kitchen.
The folder was back in the coat box.
My laptop was closed.
Everything looked exactly the same as it always did.
"Emma home?" he asked.
"Upstairs."
He poured himself a glass of water.
Leaned against the counter.
Watched me.
"You've been quiet," he said.
"I've been thinking."
"About us?"
"About the Meridian Group."
He went very still.
"What about it?"
"You told me you resigned.
That it was your decision."
"It was."
"Mark."
He set the glass down.
"Who have you been talking to?"
"People who know the truth."
"What people?" His voice sharpened.
"Linda?
Is this Linda?
Because whatever she told you—"
"It isn't only Linda."
That stopped him.
I turned to face him fully.
"Diane," I said.
The name landed.
I watched it land.
"Diane is—" He stopped.
Started again.
"Diane had a grudge against me.
She was passed over for a promotion and she blamed me for it.
Anything she told you is—"
"She kept the call records, Mark.
Seventeen calls in four days."
"That is completely taken out of context—"
"And Carrie Walsh.
And the HR documentation that still exists at the firm."
He pushed off from the counter.
"You have been going behind my back.
You have been calling people and building some kind of case against me like I'm—"
"Like you're what?"
"This is not fair.
I told you it was over.
I told you I made a mistake.
I have been trying to fix this and you have been—"
"Diane was pushed out of her job," I said.
"She signed a settlement.
She has been living with what happened to her for two years." My voice was steady.
I hadn't known it would be, but it was.
"Linda's daughter is sixteen years old and she can't look at her best friend.
Our daughter is upstairs right now not understanding why the person she loves most in the world won't speak to her."
"Don't make this about Emma."
"It is about Emma.
It has always been about Emma.
Everything you did landed on her."
He crossed the room.
Stopped two feet from me.
"I will fix it," he said.
His voice had dropped.
Quieter now.
Controlled.
"I will call Sophie's family.
I will explain that things got complicated between adults and that the girls should not be caught in the middle.
I will fix it."
"And Diane?"
"Diane is not your problem."
"She is now."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"What do you want?" he said.
"Tell me what you want and I'll do it."
"I want you to be honest with me.
Right now.
No more versions of the truth.
All of it."
A long pause.
"I've told you everything."
"Patricia Alderson."
His face went blank.
Not guilty.
Not caught.
Blank.
The expression of someone buying time.
"I don't know what you think you know about—"
"I don't think anything.
I'm asking."
He walked to the window.
His back to me again.
The same position as two nights ago.
"That was nothing.
A dinner.
It never went further than that."
"Did she know it was nothing?"
Silence.
"Mark.
Did she know?"
He didn't answer.
I walked to the hallway.
Picked up my bag from the hook by the door.
"I have a consultation with a family law attorney on Thursday morning," I said.
"I haven't decided anything yet.
But I needed you to know."
He turned around.
"You're not serious."
"I am."
"Over this?
Over mistakes I have already admitted to—"
"Over a pattern," I said.
"That is what this is.
Not a mistake.
A pattern.
And I need to decide what I'm going to do about it."
"If you do this—" He stopped.
His jaw tightened.
"Think about Emma."
"I am thinking about Emma.
That's exactly what I'm doing."
I walked to the stairs.
"I'll be in the guest room," I said.
"Don't come up."
I climbed the stairs without looking back.
At the top, Emma's door was open a crack.
I could see the light on inside, hear the faint sound of music through her earbuds.
I stopped.
Pushed the door open gently.
She looked up.
"Mom?
What's wrong?"
I sat on the edge of her bed.
"Nothing's wrong," I said.
"I just wanted to see you."
She pulled one earbud out.
Studied my face the way teenagers do when they know something is being kept from them and are deciding whether to push.
"Is it about Sophie?"
"Not exactly."
"Is it about Dad?"
I looked at my daughter.
Sixteen years old.
Eleven years of friendship folded into a scrapbook sitting on her desk.
A pale-pink dress hanging in her closet.
"We're going to figure everything out," I said.
"I promise you that."
She held my gaze for a moment.
Then she leaned over and put her head on my shoulder, the way she used to when she was small.
I put my arm around her and didn't say anything else.
Downstairs, I heard Mark's footsteps cross the kitchen floor.
May you like
Then the sound of his phone.
He was calling someone.
