Chapter 5: What Rachel Finally Said
I called Rachel the next morning and asked if she wanted to meet for coffee.
Just us.
I said I'd been thinking about her birthday and wanted to make it up to her properly.
She hesitated.
I heard it clearly.
"David has a work thing until two," she said finally.
"I could meet you at eleven."
"Perfect.
The place on Clement Street.
I'll be there first."
She arrived seven minutes late, which was unusual for Rachel.
She'd always been early to everything.
She sat down across from me and wrapped both hands around her coffee cup even though it was a warm day.
"I'm sorry about my text," she said immediately.
"The one where I said to ignore everything.
I just — I didn't want you to worry."
"I'm not worried," I said.
"I'm here."
She looked at me.
Something moved across her face that I couldn't quite name.
Not relief.
Closer to grief.
"It's not as bad as it sounded," she said.
"Okay."
"David has a system.
For the finances.
It's complicated, but it works.
He manages everything so I don't have to think about it."
"Do you want to not think about it?"
She looked down at her cup.
"Rachel.
Do you actually want that, or did you just stop fighting for it?"
The café was quiet around us.
Someone at the counter ordered something.
A chair scraped.
Rachel's jaw tightened.
"You don't know what it's like," she said.
"Every time I brought it up, it became this whole — it became a thing.
He'd explain it again, very patiently, like I was being difficult.
Like I was the one making it complicated." She stopped.
"After a while it was just easier not to ask."
"When was the last time you saw a bank statement?"
She didn't answer.
"Rachel."
"I don't know.
A while."
"Two years?"
Her eyes came up fast.
"Who told you that?"
"You did.
In the restroom.
Before David walked in."
She set her cup down.
Her hands weren't steady.
"I shouldn't have said that."
"But it's true."
She didn't deny it.
That was its own kind of answer.
I leaned forward.
"I need to ask you something and I need you to actually hear me.
Has David ever asked you to sign anything recently?
Any financial documents?"
The change in her face was immediate.
A door closing behind her eyes.
"Why are you asking that?"
"Because I think someone has been making plans that affect you directly, and I think you don't have the full picture."
"You're doing what Mom does," she said.
Her voice had gone flat.
"You're making it sound sinister.
He's my husband."
"I know he is."
"He loves me."
"Rachel—"
"He loves me." Her voice cracked on the second word.
Not from conviction.
From the effort of holding onto it.
I reached across the table and put my hand over hers.
She didn't pull away.
That was new.
"Has he asked you to sign something?" I asked again, quietly.
A long silence.
Then, barely audible: "Last week.
He said it was a tax form.
Something to do with restructuring the investment accounts.
He said it was routine."
"Did you sign it?"
She shook her head.
"I asked if I could read it first.
He said it was complicated and I wouldn't understand it without the financial background.
He said he'd walk me through it this weekend."
I held very still.
"Don't sign it," I said.
"Not yet.
Please."
She stared at me.
"Why?
What do you know?"
Before I could answer, her phone lit up on the table between us.
A text from David.
*Finished early.
On my way to Clement Street.
May you like
Thought I'd join you both.
😊*
