Chapter 7: The Morning He Came to Caleb's Door
Three days after the hospital, Julian came to Caleb's apartment.
I heard the buzzer from the kitchen.
Caleb was already moving toward the intercom before I could stand.
"It's him," Caleb said.
He pressed the button.
"Who is it?"
"It's Julian." A pause.
"I'd like to speak with my wife."
Caleb looked at me.
I shook my head.
"She doesn't want to speak with you," Caleb said.
"I'm not here to argue." Julian's voice through the intercom was measured, almost gentle.
"I just want five minutes.
Clara, I know you can hear me.
Five minutes.
That's all I'm asking."
I set down my coffee.
I walked to the intercom and pressed the button myself.
"No," I said.
A silence.
"Clara." His tone shifted — just slightly.
The patience thinning at the edges.
"You're making decisions based on incomplete information.
Whatever Caleb has told you, whatever those documents supposedly show — you haven't heard my side."
"I've heard your side for two years," I said.
"I'm done."
"You're eight months pregnant.
You're under enormous stress and you're not thinking clearly.
I'm not angry.
I understand.
But you need to come home so we can talk about this like adults."
Caleb put his hand on my shoulder.
"If you don't open this door," Julian said, and the gentleness was gone now, "I will go to a judge today and argue that you are in an unstable mental state and unfit to make decisions about our daughter's welfare.
I have a psychiatrist who will support that assessment."
My hand tightened on the intercom button.
"You should know," I said, "that this conversation is being recorded."
Silence.
"Caleb installed the system two weeks ago," I said.
"Everything you just said is on it."
More silence.
"Goodbye, Julian."
I released the button.
Caleb and I stood in the kitchen and listened.
For almost a minute, nothing happened.
Then we heard footsteps on the front steps, fading.
Caleb exhaled.
He picked up his phone and forwarded the audio file to Diane Marsh with three words: *From this morning.*
Her reply came back in four minutes: *Perfect.
Thank you.*
I sat back down at the kitchen table.
My coffee had gone cold.
I wrapped both hands around the mug anyway.
"He's not going to stop," I said.
"No," Caleb said.
"But he just handed us exactly what we needed to stop him."
My phone lit up on the table.
A message from a number I didn't recognize.
*I heard what he said to you at the door.
I was parked across the street.
I'm sorry.
— Renata*
May you like
I stared at the message for a long moment.
Then I typed back: *Can we meet?*
