Chapter 3: What the Phone Already Knew
Mark stared at the screen for two full seconds.
Then he pressed the side button and silenced it.
"You should answer that," Richard said.
"It's nothing."
"It's the third time that number has called you tonight." Richard glanced at his own phone, lying face-up on the table.
"I know because I've been watching."
Mark's jaw tightened.
"You've been watching my phone?"
"I've been watching everything about you for three weeks, Mark.
Ever since you walked into my office and asked me to sabotage my best attorney's career."
The table was absolutely still.
No one reached for a glass.
No one moved.
I looked down at the folder in front of me.
The first page was a printed email.
Mark's personal address in the sender field.
Richard's firm address in the recipient field.
The date was a Tuesday, three weeks ago.
I had been in depositions all day.
I remembered coming home and finding Mark already in bed, the lights off, acting like he was asleep.
I read the first line.
*I'm writing regarding my wife, Jennifer Calloway.
I have reason to believe the promotion process may not be in the firm's best interest.*
My stomach dropped.
"Keep reading," Richard said softly.
I turned to the second page.
It was a letter, printed on plain paper, addressed to two board members by name.
I recognized both names.
I had worked directly under one of them for six years.
*Jennifer has struggled with focus and reliability in recent months.
As her husband, I feel it is my responsibility to flag these concerns before a decision of this magnitude is made.*
"He told them you were unreliable," Richard said.
"He used the word 'erratic' in the voicemail.
I have the transcript."
Mark pushed back from the table.
"This is completely out of context —"
"Sit down." Richard's voice didn't rise.
It didn't need to.
"You're going to sit there and you're going to listen, because Jennifer has earned that much from every single person in this room."
Mark sat.
I turned to the third page.
It was a phone transcript.
Date, time, duration.
Richard's direct line.
Mark's cell number.
I had seen that number on our joint phone bill every month for eleven years.
I set the page down.
My hands had stopped shaking.
Something colder had replaced the shaking, something I didn't have a name for yet.
"Why?" I said.
The word came out flat.
Not angry.
Not tearful.
Just flat.
Mark looked at me for the first time since he'd stood up to make his announcement.
Something moved across his face — not guilt, not quite.
Something more calculating than that.
"You were changing," he said.
"The more successful you got, the less you needed me.
I could see it happening."
"So you tried to stop it."
"I tried to protect what we had."
The woman sitting two seats to my left — Dana, my paralegal for nine years — made a sound that was not quite a word.
"What you had," Richard said, "was a wife who worked fourteen-hour days to build a life for both of you.
What you tried to do was make sure she stayed small enough to need you."
Mark's phone buzzed again on the table.
Silent this time, but the screen lit up.
I could see the name from where I was sitting.
*Cassandra.*
I didn't know anyone named Cassandra.
May you like
I had never heard Mark mention anyone named Cassandra.
But from the way his hand moved — fast, covering the screen — he knew her very well.
