Chapter 6: The Second Phone
I stood in the bedroom doorway for a full minute before I touched it.
My sister was still on the line, her voice quiet through my earpiece.
"Olivia?
You went silent."
"There's a phone," I said.
"On his side of the bed.
Not his regular phone."
A pause.
"Don't touch it yet.
Come back downstairs."
I didn't move.
"It's unlocked," I said.
"The screen just lit up."
"Olivia—"
I crossed the room and picked it up.
The notification on the screen was from a banking app I didn't recognize.
A transfer confirmation.
The amount made me sit down on the edge of the bed.
"Rachel," I said into the phone.
"He has a second bank account."
My sister's voice changed.
"How much?"
I read her the number.
She didn't say anything for three seconds.
"That's not a secret account for small things," she said.
"That's a plan."
I scrolled up through the notifications.
More transfers.
Monthly, going back almost two years.
Regular amounts, always on the same date, always to the same account.
I opened the banking app.
It didn't require a second password — the phone was already logged in.
The account name at the top read: *D.
Harlow.*
"Diane Harlow," I said quietly.
"He was sending her money?"
"No." I kept scrolling.
"The account is in his name.
D.
Harlow.
Daniel Harlow." I found the linked address.
It was not our house.
It was not his office.
It was an apartment in a building twenty minutes away.
"He has a second address, Rachel.
He's been paying rent on an apartment for almost two years."
The room felt very still.
"He wasn't buying time," I said.
"He was building an exit."
"Olivia, listen to me.
Don't touch anything else on that phone.
Take photos of what you've already seen — screenshots — and then put it back exactly where you found it."
"Why?"
"Because if this goes where I think it might go, you're going to need a lawyer.
And your lawyer is going to want to know you didn't tamper with anything."
I took the screenshots.
Twelve of them.
Sent them to Rachel's number.
Put the phone back face-down on the charger, exactly as I'd found it.
"I need a lawyer," I said.
It wasn't a question.
"I know one," Rachel said.
"Her name is Patricia Voss.
I'm going to text you her number right now.
She's good, Olivia.
She's very good."
"It's late."
"I'll call her tonight and explain.
She'll make time tomorrow morning." A pause.
"Are you going to be all right by yourself tonight?"
I looked around the bedroom.
Our bedroom.
The room where I had slept for ten years, where I had come back to after both children were born, where I had lain awake some nights listening to Daniel breathe and feeling lucky.
"I'm going to be fine," I said.
"I can come over."
"No.
Stay home.
I need to think, and I think better alone." I stood up.
"But Rachel — thank you.
For answering."
"You never have to thank me for that," she said.
I hung up.
Stood in the dark bedroom.
Then I went and checked on both children — our son first, then our daughter — standing in each doorway long enough to hear them breathing.
They were fine.
They were completely fine.
I went back downstairs, made tea I didn't drink, and sat at the kitchen table until the sky outside the window started to change color.
My phone buzzed at six in the morning.
Not Daniel.
A number I didn't recognize.
I answered it.
"Mrs.
Harlow?" A woman's voice, professional and calm.
"My name is Patricia Voss.
Your sister called me last night.
I understand you may need some guidance.
Are you available to meet this morning?"
May you like
"Yes," I said.
"Tell me where."
