Chapter 4: The Rest of It
I read the message twice.
"Who is that?" I asked.
Tyler picked the phone back up and turned it face-down.
"Nobody."
"That's not nobody," I said.
"That's someone who knows something.
And they're threatening to tell me."
"It's complicated."
"Then uncomplicate it."
He pushed back from the table and walked to the kitchen window.
Stood there with his arms crossed, looking out at the backyard like the answer might be somewhere in the garden.
"Tyler." My voice was flat.
"Sit down and talk to me.
You don't get to stand at the window right now."
He turned around.
Sat back down.
"There's someone else," he said.
I waited.
"Not Rachel," he said.
"Someone before Rachel."
The room felt smaller.
"How long before?" I asked.
"Three years."
I did the math without meaning to.
Three years ago, our youngest had just started high school.
We'd taken a trip to the coast for our fifteenth anniversary.
I'd bought a new dress.
We'd danced on the hotel terrace.
"What's her name?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
He exhaled.
"Sandra."
"And does Sandra know about Rachel?"
He looked at the table.
That was answer enough.
"So there are two of them," I said.
"Debra—"
"I'm not finished." I kept my voice steady.
"Rachel is pregnant and wants this house.
Sandra apparently knows something she's willing to tell me herself.
And you've been lying to me for at least three years." I paused.
"Is there anything else?"
He was quiet for too long.
"Tyler.
Is there anything else?"
"The business account," he said.
I went still.
We had a small business — a property management company we'd built together over eight years.
I handled the client relationships.
He handled the finances.
We'd always split it that way because he said he was better with numbers and I'd believed him.
"What about it?" I said.
"I've been moving money," he said.
"Not a lot at first.
Just — redirecting some of the income.
Into a separate account."
"For how long?"
"Two years."
"How much?"
He named a figure.
I stood up.
Not because I was going to do anything.
My legs just needed to be under me.
"You stole from our business," I said.
"I was going to pay it back."
"You stole from our business to fund a life you were building without me."
"Debra, I—"
"Don't." I held up one hand.
"Don't explain it.
I need you to stop talking for a minute."
He stopped.
I walked to the counter and stood there with my back to him.
I looked at the coffee maker, the row of mugs on the shelf, the photograph our daughter had taken of us at Christmas two years ago that I'd printed and framed because I thought we looked happy.
We had looked happy.
I turned back around.
"I want you out of this house by Friday," I said.
"I'll have my attorney contact yours.
You will not discuss the business account with anyone until our attorneys have spoken.
And you will not contact me directly about any of this.
Everything goes through counsel."
"Debra, we can talk about this—"
"We just did," I said.
"Friday, Tyler."
He stood up slowly.
Looked at me for a long moment like he was waiting for something — tears, maybe, or anger, or a door left open.
I didn't give him any of those things.
He picked up his phone from the table.
The unknown number's message was still there on the screen, face-up now.
*Tell her the rest, Tyler.
Or I will.*
He saw me looking at it.
"I'll handle Sandra," he said.
May you like
"Don't bother," I said.
"I'll handle her myself."
