Chapter 5: What Rebecca Actually Knew
He looked at me before he answered.
I nodded once.
He put it on speaker.
"Rebecca."
"I'm in the parking lot." Her voice was even.
"I'm not calling to cause more trouble.
I just — I think you need to know something.
About why Margaret really reached out to me."
"Go ahead."
"She didn't just want me there for sentimental reasons." A pause.
"She told me that your wife was planning to cut her out after the baby came.
That you'd already agreed to it.
That this was her last chance to be part of the family."
Daniel's jaw tightened.
"That's not true."
"I know that now.
But she was very convincing." Another pause.
"She also told me that you'd been unhappy.
That the marriage was struggling.
That you'd said things to her about — about missing what we had."
The room was very quiet.
"Did you say that to her?" I asked.
Daniel looked at me directly.
"No."
"Daniel." Rebecca's voice was careful.
"I'm not trying to make things worse.
I'm telling you because I think she's been building a version of events for a long time.
And I think she told me those things so that when I walked into that room, I'd believe I was walking into something I had a right to."
"She set you up," Daniel said.
"She set both of us up.
And I think she's been doing it for longer than eight months."
I thought about the photograph.
The handwriting.
*He never stopped loving you.* The certainty in those words.
The practiced ease of them.
"How long have you two been in contact?" I asked.
A brief silence.
"She called me the week after your wedding," Rebecca said.
"I didn't encourage it.
But I didn't stop it either.
I thought she was just — grieving, I suppose.
The way some mothers do when their sons move on." She paused.
"I should have told Daniel sooner.
That's on me."
"What did she say to you?
In those calls."
"At first, just memories.
Stories about Daniel when he was young.
Things she missed.
Then it shifted.
She started asking questions about whether I was seeing anyone.
Whether I'd thought about having children another way.
Whether I'd ever considered that Daniel and I had given up too soon." Rebecca's voice was steady but careful.
"I told her each time that it was over.
That I'd moved on.
That she needed to do the same."
"But she didn't."
"No.
And the calls kept coming.
Less often, but they kept coming.
And then three weeks ago she sent that photograph with the note, and told me you were having a daughter, and said — she said Daniel had told her he wished things had been different."
Daniel stood up.
"I never said that to her."
"I believe you."
"She fabricated it."
"Yes."
He walked to the window.
His back was to me.
His shoulders were rigid.
"Rebecca," I said.
"Do you have the messages?
The calls — did any of them come through in writing?"
A pause.
"Some of them.
She sent texts.
A few emails."
"Would you be willing to forward them to Daniel?"
Another pause.
Longer this time.
"Yes," Rebecca said.
"I think that's the right thing to do."
"Thank you."
"I'm sorry," Rebecca said.
"For today.
For all of it.
I hope — I hope she's healthy.
Your daughter."
"She is," I said.
"Her name is Nora."
The line was quiet for a moment.
"That's a good name," Rebecca said.
And then she hung up.
Daniel stood at the window for a long moment without turning around.
"She's been running a campaign," he said.
"For three years."
"At least three years."
He turned.
"I need to call her."
"Not tonight," I said.
"She needs to know—"
"Daniel." I looked at Nora in the bassinet.
"Tonight, I need you here.
She can wait until tomorrow.
She's waited three years.
She can wait one more night."
He looked at me.
Then at Nora.
He sat back down.
But twenty minutes later, while I was holding Nora and Daniel had his eyes closed in the chair, his phone lit up on the armrest.
A text from Margaret.
May you like
I could only see the first line of the preview before the screen went dark.
*I know you're angry, but there's something about Rebecca you still don't know—*
