Chapter 6: What He Kept in the Study
Grace called back within the hour.
"That voicemail is a threat," she said.
"Depending on how the detective reads it in context, it may be relevant to the larger investigation.
I've already forwarded it to him."
"He said he has documentation.
That I was unstable."
"Let me worry about that.
Do you have any idea what he might be referring to?"
I thought about it.
Two years ago I had seen a therapist for six months — not because anything was wrong with me, but because I had felt hollowed out and didn't know why.
Julian had found the billing statements and told me I was wasting money on self-pity.
I had stopped going.
"A therapist," I said.
"I saw someone for about six months.
Julian knew."
"Medical records are protected.
He can't use them without a court order, and a court order cuts both ways — it would also show why you sought help and what you described in those sessions." Grace paused.
"Audrey, did you ever describe his behavior to the therapist?"
I thought back.
"Yes.
Some of it."
"Good," she said.
"That's very good."
I hung up and looked at the ceiling for a long time.
The next morning my father brought Chloe.
She came through the door holding his hand, wearing her yellow raincoat even though it wasn't raining, and when she saw me she stopped completely.
She stood in the doorway and looked at my casts, at the monitor, at the stitches above my ear, and her face did something complicated that no six-year-old's face should have to do.
Then she walked to the bed very carefully and put her small hand on top of mine.
"Does it hurt?" she asked.
"Not right now," I said.
She nodded seriously.
"Grandpa said you were very brave."
"Grandpa's right."
She looked at my father.
"Can I sit with her?"
He lifted her up and set her gently on the edge of the bed, and she sat very still like she understood that stillness was something she could give me.
We stayed like that for a while.
She told me about Aunt Margaret's cat, about a book she had been reading, about a dream she'd had where we were at the beach and the water was the color of lemons.
I listened to every word.
When my father stepped out to speak with a nurse, Chloe leaned close to me.
"Mommy," she said quietly.
"Daddy came to Aunt Margaret's house."
I kept my face calm.
"When?"
"Two nights ago.
He talked to Aunt Margaret for a long time.
I was supposed to be asleep but I heard some of it."
"What did you hear?"
She looked at her hands.
"He said you were trying to take me away from him.
He said you were sick." She looked up.
"Are you sick?"
"My legs are broken," I said.
"That's all."
"He said a different kind of sick."
I took her hand.
"Chloe.
I am not sick.
I am getting better every day.
And no matter what anyone tells you, I am coming home to you.
Do you understand?"
She looked at me for a long moment with those serious eyes that had always seen more than I expected.
"I believe you," she said.
My father came back in.
I didn't tell him what Chloe had said — not yet.
But I filed it away in the same place I was filing everything else.
That afternoon, my father's contact — a man named Rourke who he introduced only by last name and who wore civilian clothes but stood like someone who had never been fully civilian — arrived with a laptop and a printed set of documents.
"We pulled the security footage from the intersection," Rourke said, setting the laptop on the tray table.
"Traffic cam.
City-owned.
The detective already has a copy, but your father asked me to look at it separately."
He turned the screen toward me.
The footage was grainy and time-stamped.
I watched a silver car — my car — move through the intersection.
I watched the other car come from the left.
I watched the impact.
I looked away.
"There's something else," Rourke said.
He pulled up a second window.
"We ran Deel's phone records more completely.
The call to Julian's number forty minutes before — that's confirmed.
But there's a second call.
Made from a burner number, two days before the accident, lasting eleven minutes."
"To Deel?"
"To Deel." Rourke looked at me.
"We can't trace the burner yet.
But the cell tower it pinged puts it within a half-mile radius of Julian's office building."
The room was very quiet.
"He planned it," I said.
"We don't have enough to say that yet," Rourke said.
"But the detective is close."
My father was standing by the window again.
He had a habit of standing near windows — always with a clear view of the door.
"There's one more thing," Rourke said.
He hesitated, which was the first time I had seen him hesitate.
"Julian has a storage unit.
Registered under one of the LLCs.
Grace's team found it this morning.
The detective is working on a warrant."
"What do they think is in it?"
Rourke looked at my father.
My father gave a small nod.
"Documents," Rourke said.
"Possibly a second set of financial records.
And according to a neighbor who rents the adjacent unit — Julian has been there four times in the past three weeks.
The last time was yesterday."
Yesterday.
May you like
The day after he came to the hospital and found my father standing in the room.
He was cleaning something out.
