Chapter 9: The Call He Made
I sat with Emma until she fell asleep.
Then I went to the top of the stairs and listened.
Mark's voice was low.
I could only catch pieces.
"—she knows about Diane—"
"—I don't know how much—"
"—you need to be careful what you say if she contacts you—"
A long pause.
Him listening.
"—I understand that.
But this is not the time to—"
Another pause.
"—Patricia, I need you to trust me—"
I walked back down the hall to the guest room and closed the door quietly.
Patricia Alderson.
He was calling her.
Tonight.
An hour after I had said her name to him for the first time.
I sat on the edge of the guest bed and thought about that.
He wasn't calling to end it.
He was calling to coordinate.
To make sure their stories matched before I could reach her.
He was doing exactly what a man does when he realizes the walls are closing in and he still believes he can manage the situation.
I picked up my phone and opened my email.
The attorney had already replied.
Thursday at ten.
Her name was Rebecca Holt.
The email was professional and warm and asked me to bring any documentation I had.
I thought about the folder in the coat box.
I thought about Diane's call records.
Linda's voicemails.
Carrie's account.
The HR documentation at the Meridian Group.
Then I thought about Patricia Alderson, sitting somewhere right now, listening to Mark tell her to be careful.
I opened a new message and typed Patricia Alderson's name into the search bar on the firm's website.
She wasn't hard to find.
A photo.
A title.
A professional email address.
I wrote her a short message.
I told her who I was.
I told her I wasn't writing to accuse her of anything.
I told her I was trying to understand the full picture before I made any decisions about my family.
I told her that Mark had called her tonight — within the last hour — and that I thought she deserved to know that I already knew her name before that call happened.
I told her that if she wanted to talk, I was available.
Then I sent it and set the phone face-down on the nightstand.
I lay back on the guest bed with my clothes still on and stared at the ceiling.
Eighteen years.
Emma at three days old, so small Mark had been afraid to hold her.
Emma at five, starting kindergarten, reaching back for my hand at the classroom door.
Emma at eleven, coming home with Sophie for the first time, the two of them already finishing each other's sentences.
Eighteen years of a life I had believed in completely.
My phone lit up.
I turned it over.
Patricia Alderson had replied in eleven minutes.
*I've been waiting for someone to reach out for eight months.
Can we talk tomorrow?*
I wrote back: *Yes.
Name the time.*
Then I put the phone down again.
In the morning I would talk to Patricia.
On Thursday I would sit across from Rebecca Holt with the folder and everything in it.
And at some point — not yet, but soon — I would sit down with Emma and tell her the truth in the way that a sixteen-year-old girl deserved to hear it.
Not everything at once.
But enough.
Enough so she understood that none of this was her fault.
Enough so she understood that Sophie had not stopped loving her.
I closed my eyes.
Down the hall, Mark was quiet now.
The call was over.
May you like
I wondered what Patricia had said to him.
I wondered if he had any idea what she was about to say to me.
