Chapter 4: The Half-Second Pause
"Paul." I kept my voice even.
"Just tell me."
Another pause.
I heard him exhale.
"He mentioned her once," Paul said.
"Maybe six weeks before he got sick.
He said she'd come to him first, actually.
That she'd knocked on your door when you were out and told him something."
"Told him what?"
"He didn't say exactly.
He just said she was — he called her a troublemaker.
Said she'd tried to cause problems and he'd handled it."
"Handled it how?"
"I don't know, Claire.
He didn't go into it.
I assumed it was some boundary dispute, fence line, something like that." Paul's voice shifted.
"What's happened?"
I told him.
All of it — the stripped trees, the sign, the crowd, and what Monica had said about Daniel sitting at her kitchen table.
Paul was quiet for a moment.
"She's lying about the kitchen table."
"How do you know?"
"Because Daniel told me she'd tried to get into his head and he'd shut it down.
He was angry about it.
I've never heard him that angry about a neighbor." A pause.
"He said, and I remember this clearly — he said, 'She tried to make me doubt my own life, and I told her to stay away from my family.'"
Something in my chest loosened slightly.
Not all the way.
But slightly.
"Why didn't he tell me?" I asked.
"You know why.
You were already dealing with his diagnosis.
He didn't want to add to it."
I stared at the kitchen table.
At the chair pulled slightly too far out.
"She's going to say something to people," I said.
"She's going to spread whatever version she has."
"Then you need to know what version that is."
"I know.
But I don't know how to find out without going to her directly."
"Don't go to her directly," Paul said immediately.
"Not yet.
Think about who else might know something.
Who does she talk to on that street?"
I thought about it.
Monica had one person she was genuinely close to — a woman named Diane who lived two houses down.
They walked together on Sunday mornings.
They had coffee.
If Monica had told anyone her version of events, she had told Diane.
"I know who to ask," I said.
"Be careful, Claire.
She's trying to destabilize you.
That's what this is."
"I know what it is."
"Do you need me to come over?"
I looked at the empty chair.
"Not yet.
I'll call you tonight."
I hung up and sat for another minute.
Then I stood, put my coat on, and walked two houses down.
Diane answered the door in a cardigan and reading glasses pushed up on her head.
She was sixty-one, quiet, and had always been kind to Ben and his sister Lily.
"Claire." Her face shifted — concern, and something else underneath it.
"Come in."
"I won't stay long," I said.
"I just need to ask you something directly."
"All right."
"Has Monica said anything to you about Daniel?"
Diane looked at her hands.
That was answer enough.
"What did she tell you?" I asked.
"Claire, I don't want to be in the middle of—"
"Diane.
Please.
She just told a street full of people that my husband confided in her.
That he was unhappy.
I need to know what she's been saying and for how long."
Diane took her glasses off her head and turned them in her hands.
"She told me about two months ago," she said quietly.
"She said Daniel had come to her in distress.
That your marriage had been — she used the word 'difficult.' That he'd been lonely."
"And you believed her?"
Diane looked up.
"Honestly?
No.
Not entirely.
I've watched you two for years, Claire.
I've seen how he looked at you." She paused.
"But I didn't know what to do with it.
She told me in confidence."
"She told a street full of people this morning."
"I know.
I was there." Diane set her glasses on the side table.
"There's something else.
She mentioned a letter."
My hand went still on the door frame.
"What letter?"
"She said Daniel had written her a letter.
That she still had it." Diane's voice was careful.
"I don't know if that's true.
I don't know if any of it is true.
But that's what she said."
I walked home slowly.
A letter.
In Monica's possession.
In Daniel's handwriting.
May you like
I didn't believe it.
But I couldn't afford not to.
