Chapter 3 - THE PAYMENT MADE WHILE MY FATHER DIED
At 9:47 p.m., my father was fighting for his life in Chicago.
At 9:47 p.m., my husband was in New York with Victoria Hale.
And at 9:47 p.m., someone had authorized nearly a million dollars in Ethan's name to a company my father was investigating.
I stared at the document.
"Does this mean Ethan knew?"
Samuel shook his head.
"Not necessarily. An electronic approval can be misused. We need the audit logs and supporting evidence."
I swallowed.
"Then who controls those accounts?"
"That's what we need to determine."
He advised me to preserve the records and speak with an independent attorney before confronting anyone.
I agreed.
For once, I wasn't going to rush toward Ethan demanding explanations he could turn into another argument about my emotions.
I left Samuel's office carrying copies of the documents.
Then I drove to Dad's apartment.
I had planned to stay there temporarily while the divorce proceedings began.
The place was quiet.
His reading glasses rested beside the television.
A half-finished crossword lay on the coffee table.
In the kitchen, his favorite blue mug stood upside down on the drying rack.
I touched it.
And suddenly, I couldn't breathe.
Dad should have been here.
He should have been complaining that I bought the wrong brand of coffee.
He should have been asking whether I'd eaten.
He should have been telling me that everything would eventually be okay.
Instead, there was silence.
I sank onto a kitchen chair.
Then my phone rang.
Ethan.
I watched it vibrate.
I didn't answer.
He called again.
Then sent a message.
Claire, we need to talk. I'm coming over.
I typed back.
Do not come without asking me first.
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Then his response arrived.
You're my wife.
I stared at those words.
As though marriage were an access card he could use whenever he wanted.
I replied.
That doesn't give you permission to ignore my boundaries.
Then I switched my phone to silent.
An hour later, someone knocked.
I froze.
"Claire?"
Ethan.
Of course.
I approached the door but didn't open it.
"I told you not to come."
His voice softened.
"Please. Five minutes."
"No."
"I brought dinner."
I almost laughed.
For seven months, I'd begged him to come home for dinner.
Now he thought one meal could repair everything.
"Leave it outside."
"Claire."
I closed my eyes.
"Go home, Ethan."
A long silence followed.
Then I heard his footsteps retreat.
I waited several minutes before looking through the peephole.
He was gone.
A paper bag rested beside the door.
Inside was chicken soup from my favorite restaurant.
And a handwritten note.
I'm sorry I wasn't there.
I stood holding it.
For a moment, I wanted to cry.
Not because the note was enough.
Because I'd once dreamed of a marriage where an apology like that would never have been necessary.
Then I noticed something tucked beneath the soup container.
A second envelope.
No handwriting.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
My father stood beside a black sedan in a parking garage.
Across from him was a tall man in a dark coat.
The man's face was turned away.
But I recognized the silver cuff links.
I'd bought them for Ethan on our fifth anniversary.
My stomach dropped.
On the back, someone had written:
ASK YOUR HUSBAND WHAT HE TOLD ROBERT THE DAY BEFORE THE CRASH.
I stared at the image.
Then my phone lit up.
May you like
An unknown number had sent one more message.
ETHAN DIDN'T GO TO NEW YORK UNTIL AFTER HE MET YOUR FATHER.
