Chapter 8: The Morning Greg Came to My Door
He arrived at nine-fifteen.
I'd been expecting it.
Patricia had told me he would come to the most obvious place first, and that I should let him knock, let him speak, and say as little as possible.
My husband stood in the hallway behind me when I opened the door.
Greg was in his work clothes.
Tie loosened.
He'd driven straight from the office.
"Where is she?" he said.
"Good morning, Greg."
"Diane.
Where is Sally?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
His jaw tightened.
"Her car is at home.
Her phone is going to voicemail.
I've called her mother—" He stopped.
Looked at me.
Recalibrated.
"I've called her sister.
Nobody knows where she is."
"That's worrying," I said.
Something moved behind his eyes.
He was deciding how to play this.
"Look," he said.
His voice dropped.
Reasonable now.
Warm.
The voice he used at dinner parties.
"I know things have been tense.
I know last night was — I said some things I shouldn't have.
I just want to talk to her.
I want to make sure she's okay."
"I'm sure she'll reach out when she's ready."
"Diane." He put one hand on the door frame.
Not threatening.
Just present.
Filling the space.
"I know she came to you.
I know that's where she is.
I'm not angry.
I just — she's my wife.
Emmy is my daughter.
I have a right to know where my family is."
"You do," I said.
"And your family's lawyer will be in touch with your lawyer very shortly."
The hand on the door frame went still.
"What did you say?"
"I think you heard me."
He stared at me.
The warmth was gone now.
What was underneath it was something harder and colder and much more honest.
"You have no idea what you're doing," he said.
"I've been a mother for thirty-one years," I said.
"I have some idea."
"She won't go through with it.
She never does.
She knows what she'd be giving up."
"She's already given up quite a lot," I said.
"I think she's decided she's done."
He leaned in slightly.
Lowered his voice.
"I will fight this.
Every step.
I will make it so expensive and so long and so ugly that she will wish she'd never—"
"Greg." My husband's voice came from behind me.
Quiet.
Steady.
The voice he uses when he has already decided something.
"Step back from my door."
Greg looked past me.
Looked at my husband.
He stepped back.
"This isn't over," he said.
"No," I agreed.
"It isn't.
But it has started.
And we're ready."
He stood there for one more moment.
Then he turned and walked to his car.
He sat in the driveway for a long time before he drove away.
I closed the door.
Turned around.
My husband was already on the phone with Patricia.
Upstairs, I could hear Emmy's voice, high and bright, asking Sally something about breakfast.
May you like
Sally's answer came through the ceiling, soft and clear.
She was laughing.
