Chapter 8: The Night He Said Her Name
I chose a Sunday.
Brad was relaxed on Sundays.
His guard came down.
He poured a second glass of wine and talked more freely and forgot, sometimes, to be strategic.
I made beef Wellington.
His favorite.
I set the table properly, with candles, the way I used to when we were first married.
He noticed and looked pleased with himself, as if the effort were somehow about him.
We ate.
He talked about work.
A new client.
A difficult quarter.
The project running over schedule.
I waited.
"Renata thinks we should push the deadline to Q2," he said, refilling his glass.
"She's probably right.
She's sharp."
"Tell me about her," I said.
Lightly.
Curious-wife lightly.
He didn't hesitate.
That told me everything.
"She joined the team about eight months ago.
Came from a firm in Chicago.
Very driven.
Good instincts." He cut into his food.
"She's been a real asset on this project."
"She sounds impressive."
"She is." He looked up.
"Why?"
"You mention her a lot," I said.
"I was curious."
Something moved behind his eyes.
Just briefly.
"I mention a lot of colleagues."
"You do," I agreed.
He looked at me for a moment longer than was comfortable.
Then he looked back at his plate.
"This is excellent, by the way," he said.
"Thank you."
We finished dinner.
He helped clear the table — another sign that his conscience was awake.
He poured me a glass of wine I hadn't asked for and suggested we watch something together.
I said that sounded nice.
We sat on the couch and I let him choose the program and I watched him relax back into comfort, back into the assumption that everything was normal, that I was the same Sophie I had always been, that nothing had changed.
The next morning, while he was in the shower, I took the folder from where I had hidden it and placed it in the drawer of my nightstand.
Frank had sent his final report two days earlier.
Fourteen photographs in total.
A written summary.
Dates, times, locations.
I had also, quietly, spoken to a family attorney named Patricia Webb.
She had been recommended by a woman in my neighborhood whose divorce had been handled with discretion and fairness.
Patricia had listened to everything I told her and then said, calmly, "You've done this exactly right.
Don't move any more money.
Don't confront him yet.
Let me prepare the paperwork first."
The paperwork was ready.
The photographs were ready.
Frank's report was ready.
All I needed now was the right moment.
It came sooner than I expected.
That Tuesday, Brad came home and said he needed to talk to me about the food truck.
He sat down at the kitchen table with the careful expression he had been wearing lately, the one that meant he had rehearsed what he was about to say.
"I've been thinking," he said.
"I want to support you in this.
I do.
But I've spoken to a financial advisor, and the numbers don't work the way you're imagining.
I think we should consider pulling out while we still can.
The deposit might be partially recoverable if we—"
"Brad," I said.
He stopped.
I went to the nightstand.
I came back to the kitchen.
I set the folder on the table in front of him.
He looked at it.
He didn't touch it.
May you like
"What is that?" he said.
"Open it," I said.
