Chapter 4: The Man Trevor Called
His name was Gerald Fitch.
Patricia knew him.
When Trevor came back into the living room twenty minutes later, his posture had changed.
The shame was still there, somewhere underneath, but it had been covered over with something practiced and cold.
"My attorney advises me not to sign anything today," he said.
Patricia didn't blink.
"That's your right."
"And he advises me that any custody arrangement discussed without his presence is not binding."
"Also correct," Patricia said.
"Which is why nothing discussed today is binding.
This was a courtesy."
Trevor looked at me.
"A courtesy."
"I could have had you served at the airport," I said.
"Patricia offered me that option."
He sat down then.
Not because he wanted to.
Because his legs seemed to require it.
Carol had not moved from her place beside me.
She had not spoken to her son since he came back from the hallway.
"Trevor," she said now.
He looked at her.
"Who is she?"
A pause.
"It doesn't matter."
"It matters to me."
"Mom, this is not the time—"
"You missed the birth of your daughters." Her voice was steady and terrible.
"You were with another woman while your wife was on an operating table.
So I'm going to ask you one more time.
Who is she?"
The room was very quiet.
"Someone I met at work," he said finally.
"It was — it got out of hand.
It wasn't supposed to be anything."
"But you booked a hotel," I said.
He didn't answer.
"You made a dinner reservation," I said.
"You told her what you promised her.
Those were your words.
*Don't forget what you promised.* What did you promise her, Trevor?"
His eyes dropped to the folder on the table.
"That I was going to leave," he said.
The words landed like something physical.
My mom's hand tightened over mine.
Carol stood up from the couch.
She walked to the window and stood with her back to the room.
"You were going to leave," I said.
"When?"
"After the babies came." His voice had gone flat.
"I was going to wait until you were settled, and then—"
"You were going to wait until I had just had surgery and was alone with two newborns," I said.
"And then leave."
He didn't deny it.
"And the vacation," I said.
"That was a trial run.
You were seeing if you could actually do it."
Still nothing.
Patricia was writing something in her notepad.
The scratch of her pen was the only sound.
"I want you to hear something," I said.
I reached into the pocket of my cardigan and took out my phone.
I opened the voice memo app.
I pressed play.
Trevor's voice came out of the speaker.
Tinny and small but perfectly clear.
It was from three weeks ago, a phone call I had accidentally recorded when I sat on my phone during a nap.
I had only discovered it the week before the surgery, when I was going through old files.
*She doesn't suspect anything.
She's too focused on the pregnancy.
By the time she figures it out, I'll already have a plan.*
The room did not move.
Trevor's face had gone past white into something gray.
Carol turned from the window.
"That's your son," I said to her.
I was not being cruel.
I just needed someone else to hear it said out loud.
Carol looked at Trevor for a long time.
Then she picked up her coat from the arm of the chair.
"I'll be staying with you," she said to me.
"For as long as you need."
Trevor stood up.
"Mom—"
"Don't," she said.
The same word she had used earlier.
But this time there was nothing broken in it.
She walked to my mother and introduced herself quietly, and the two of them took the babies into the kitchen.
Trevor and I were alone.
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and for a moment he looked like the man I had married.
Tired and young and caught.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"I know," I said.
"I didn't want it to happen this way."
"Which part?" I asked.
"The affair?
The vacation?
Missing the birth?
Or getting caught?"
He had no answer for that.
Patricia came back in from the hallway where she had stepped to give us a moment.
"Mr.
Calloway," she said, "I'd recommend you arrange alternative accommodation for tonight.
Given the petition for exclusive use of the marital home, remaining here could complicate your position."
He looked at me one more time.
I looked back.
He picked up his suitcase — still by the door where he had dropped it — and walked out.
The door closed.
Not slammed.
Just closed.
I sat in the quiet living room and listened to my mother's voice in the kitchen, soft and low, talking to my daughters.
Then Patricia sat down across from me and opened her notepad.
May you like
"Now," she said.
"Tell me everything about Gerald Fitch."
