Chapter 6: What Kristin Told Me
She was already there when I arrived — a small café near the river, the kind of place with mismatched chairs and handwritten menus and enough background noise that a difficult conversation could disappear into it.
Kristin Hale was younger than I had expected.
Early thirties.
She was sitting with both hands around a cup of tea, and when she saw me come through the door she stood up like she wasn't sure whether to extend her hand or apologize or simply run.
I sat down across from her.
"I'm not here to blame you," I said.
"I need you to understand that before you say anything."
She nodded.
Her eyes were red at the edges.
"I ended it in March," she said.
"I told him I couldn't do it anymore.
That it wasn't right.
That I didn't want to be the reason a family—" She stopped.
Pressed her lips together.
"He didn't take it well."
"What did he do?"
"He kept coming to my desk.
Calling after hours.
Sending messages that were — they weren't threatening exactly, but they felt like warnings.
Like he was reminding me that he had influence at the firm and I didn't." She looked down at her tea.
"I started writing everything down because my sister told me to.
In case I ever needed it."
"Do you still have it?"
"All of it." She reached into her bag and placed a folder on the table between us.
"I made copies."
I looked at the folder.
I didn't open it yet.
"Why didn't you come to me sooner?" I asked.
"Because I was ashamed." Her voice cracked on the last word.
"I knew about you.
I knew about your children.
I told myself it wasn't serious, and then it was serious, and by the time I understood what kind of person he actually was, I was already in it." She looked up at me.
"I'm sorry.
I know that doesn't fix anything."
"It doesn't," I said.
"But I believe you."
She exhaled slowly.
I opened the folder.
The messages were printed in chronological order.
I read the first page, then the second.
By the third page my hands were steady but my jaw was tight.
These were not the messages of a man who had made a mistake and felt remorse.
These were the messages of a man who believed he was entitled — to Kristin's time, to her silence, to her continued participation in something she had tried to leave.
One message, sent at eleven-fifteen on a Tuesday night three weeks ago, read: *You don't want to make this difficult.
I know people who make things difficult for people.*
I set the page down.
"He sent this from his personal phone?" I asked.
"Yes."
"And you kept the originals?"
"Screenshots, backed up to two places."
I looked at her across the table.
She was frightened and exhausted and younger than she should have been to be sitting in a café handing evidence to a stranger's wife.
"I'm going to need your help," I said.
"Not to hurt you.
To make sure this stops."
She nodded.
"Whatever you need."
I closed the folder.
I put it in my bag.
"Does he know you kept records?" I asked.
"No."
"Good," I said.
"Let's keep it that way."
I stood to leave.
She stood too.
"What are you going to do?" she asked.
I picked up my bag.
"I'm going to give him exactly what he asked for."
She looked at me, not understanding.
May you like
"He wanted an open marriage," I said.
"I'm going to open everything."
