Chapter 4: The House on Dellwood Street
I didn't cry.
I thought I would, but I didn't.
I just sat there looking at the photograph of that house — pale yellow siding, a child's bicycle on the front porch, a potted plant by the door — and felt something go very quiet inside me.
"Her name is Renata," Caleb said.
"She worked for one of his development companies.
He told her he was separated."
"Of course he did."
"She found out the truth about four months ago.
She's not — Clara, she's not the enemy here.
She didn't know."
I set the photograph face-down on the table.
"Does she know about me?
About the baby?"
"She does now.
She's the one who contacted me."
I looked up at him.
"She contacted you?"
"She found my name through your hospital records from two years ago.
The last time you were admitted." He paused.
"You told them you fell that time too."
I didn't answer.
"Renata reached out because she wanted you to know.
She said you deserved to know the truth before you had the baby." Caleb folded his hands.
"She also has documents, Clara.
Financial documents.
He's been moving money out of your joint accounts for over a year."
Something cold settled in my chest.
"How much?"
"Enough that your lawyer will want to see it immediately."
The door opened and a woman in dark blue scrubs leaned in.
"Mr.
Vance is asking to come back in.
He's getting loud at the desk."
Caleb looked at me.
"No," I said.
"Tell them no."
The woman nodded and pulled the door closed.
"I need you to do something for me," Caleb said.
"Before he gets access to you again, I need you to speak to someone.
Her name is Dr.
Patricia Osei.
She's a patient advocate here.
She handles exactly this kind of situation and she's already been called."
"You planned all of this."
"I hoped I'd never need to." He looked at the X-ray still glowing on the monitor.
"I hoped I was wrong about him."
A knock at the door.
A woman entered — calm, unhurried, a leather folder under her arm.
She was in her fifties, silver-haired, with the kind of steady gaze that made you feel like the room had gotten slightly safer.
"Clara," she said.
"I'm Patricia.
I'm going to sit with you for a few minutes, if that's all right."
I nodded.
She pulled a chair close and sat down.
She didn't open the folder.
She just looked at me.
"You don't have to decide anything tonight," she said.
"But I want you to know what your options are, so that whatever you decide, it's yours."
From somewhere down the corridor, I heard Julian's voice.
Not the words — just the tone.
The patient, reasonable tone he used when he was explaining to someone why they were wrong.
Patricia heard it too.
She didn't look toward the door.
"He can't come in here," she said simply.
"Not unless you say so."
I looked down at my good hand resting on my stomach.
May you like
My daughter pressed back against my palm, steady and certain.
"Tell me my options," I said.
