Chapter 2 - The Woman Who Knew
Her name was Claire Donovan.
I had never met her.
But I knew the name.
Not from Ethan.
From one of the documents in my folder.
Claire Donovan had appeared twice in tiny print on filings connected to Brooks Strategic Holdings.
Consultant.
That was the designation.
No explanation.
No salary.
No details.
Just a name.
I locked my phone as Ethan reached the bottom of the stairs.
He had changed.
No jacket.
Tie gone.
Shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms.
That version of Ethan usually meant he wanted to look less like a lawyer and more like my husband.
For years, the transformation had worked.
Tonight I only noticed how practiced it felt.
“You still awake?” he asked.
I looked at the clock.
“It’s nine twenty-three.”
“Right.”
He stood in the doorway.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning up.”
I slid my phone facedown onto the counter.
His eyes followed it.
“Who were you texting?”
“My attorney.”
It wasn’t true.
Not yet.
But his reaction gave me something valuable.
His face lost color.
Then recovered.
“That was fast.”
“I’m efficient when properly motivated.”
He studied me.
“Who did you call?”
“I’ll tell you when I hire someone.”
“I’m asking because some lawyers create unnecessary conflict.”
“You’re a lawyer.”
“Exactly.”
“And you’ve mentioned divorce sixteen times.”
His jaw tightened.
“Are we really doing that number all night?”
“I suspect I’ll remember it for a while.”
Ethan walked to the refrigerator, opened it, stared inside, then closed it without taking anything.
“Look.”
He rested his hands on the island.
“We both said things.”
“No.”
“What?”
“You said something.”
“You’ve never said anything hurtful?”
“Of course I have.”
“Then stop pretending you’re some innocent victim.”
There it was.
Another familiar path.
If Ethan could prove I had ever made a mistake, then his behavior required no examination.
I used to follow him down that path every time.
Tonight I stayed where I was.
“We’re discussing divorce.”
“No, you’re discussing divorce. I withdrew the statement.”
“It wasn’t a contract offer.”
He gave me a humorless smile.
“You’ve been waiting to use that line on a lawyer?”
“No. It just occurred to me.”
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then Ethan surprised me.
He sat down.
Not dramatically.
He pulled out a stool and lowered himself onto it.
His shoulders softened.
“I don’t want to lose you.”
Seven years earlier, that sentence would have destroyed me.
Even a year earlier, maybe.
Tonight, I heard something missing.
Not love.
Fear.
His fear.
“I don’t want to fight,” he continued.
“Neither do I.”
“Then don’t hire a lawyer.”
“That isn’t how this works.”
“It can be.”
“How?”
“We talk.”
“We’ve talked.”
“Not like this.”
“That’s because this is the first time you believed I might leave.”
His eyes met mine.
The accuracy of it seemed to anger him.
“You think I’m afraid?”
“Yes.”
“Of losing you?”
I didn’t answer.
He leaned back.
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Assume the worst possible motive.”
That sentence almost made me admire him.
He could turn his own panic into my character defect before I had even described it.
I reached for my water.
Ethan watched me.
“Do you love me?”
I set down the glass.
“Yes.”
His face softened.
Then I continued.
“But love stopped being the question.”
He frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I spent years believing love could compensate for fear.”
“You were afraid of me?”
“Yes.”
The word landed hard.
Ethan stood.
“That's ridiculous.”
“You asked.”
“I have never laid a hand on you.”
“I didn’t say you did.”
“Then what exactly were you afraid of?”
“Losing the house.”
His expression shifted.
“Losing access to money.”
Another shift.
“Being told everyone would believe you if we separated because you were the attorney and I was the emotional wife.”
“I never said that.”
“You said it after Thanksgiving two years ago.”
“You’re twisting—”
“You said, ‘Who do you think people are going to believe?’”
Silence.
I remembered the moment perfectly.
His parents’ guest bedroom.
The door half closed.
My hands shaking.
Ethan standing between me and the hallway.
Not touching me.
Not needing to.
“I was angry,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“You keep dragging up old things.”
“They stopped being old because they kept happening.”
He picked up his phone.
“You want this marriage over?”
“I want the threats over.”
“Fine. They’re over.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“What do you want me to do? Put it in writing?”
“An attorney probably could.”
His face hardened.
I regretted nothing.
He grabbed the leather folder.
That folder again.
“Ethan.”
“What?”
“What’s inside?”
“Work.”
“You brought work into the kitchen while threatening divorce?”
“I came home from work.”
“You put it on the island before you said anything.”
He looked down at it.
That was enough.
“What is it?”
“Confidential.”
“Your firm’s?”
“Yes.”
The lie came quickly.
Too quickly.
I looked at the embossed initials near the bottom corner.
E.B.
Not the firm.
Ethan Brooks.
Personal.
He followed my eyes.
“It was a gift.”
“I didn’t ask about the folder.”
“No, you’re interrogating me about everything now.”
“Because everything suddenly feels worth questioning.”
His phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
Declined it.
I saw the first name before it disappeared.
Claire.
My heartbeat changed.
Ethan shoved the phone away.
“Work?”
“Yes.”
“Claire Donovan?”
He looked at me.
That was the first time all night Ethan truly lost control of his expression.
It didn’t last.
But I saw it.
“How do you know Claire?”
“I asked first.”
“She consults for the firm.”
“Which firm?”
“Ours.”
“Then why is she listed on Brooks Strategic Holdings?”
Ethan stopped moving.
Not figuratively.
Completely.
His left hand still rested on the leather folder.
His right remained near his phone.
“You went through my business records?”
“They were attached to our tax documents.”
“That company has nothing to do with you.”
“We’re married.”
“That doesn’t make every entity I create yours.”
“No. State law might.”
His eyes narrowed.
“I see your counselor has turned you into an attorney too.”
“No. Google helped.”
He laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
“You have no idea what you’re looking at.”
“Then explain it.”
“I don’t have to justify every professional arrangement.”
“Forty thousand dollars from our joint funds feels less professional.”
“That money was mine.”
“It came from our account.”
“I deposited most of it.”
“We’re married.”
He slammed the leather folder onto the island.
The sound made me jump.
He saw it.
So did I.
Ethan stared at my face.
For one brief second, shame passed across his.
Then irritation swallowed it.
“You see?” he said.
“See what?”
“You flinch and suddenly I’m some monster.”
“I didn’t call you one.”
“You don’t need to.”
I picked up my phone.
Ethan’s gaze dropped to it.
“Who have you been talking to?”
“Nobody.”
“Show me.”
“No.”
His face changed again.
“Excuse me?”
“My phone is private.”
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
“We’re married.”
“So?”
“What are you hiding?”
I almost laughed at the symmetry.
Instead, I slipped the phone into my pocket.
“I’m going to bed.”
Ethan stepped sideways.
Not blocking me exactly.
But occupying the doorway.
I looked at him.
After a moment, he moved.
“Fine.”
I walked past.
At the stairs, he spoke behind me.
“You’re making a mistake.”
I stopped.
“I’ve made several.”
“That isn’t what I mean.”
I continued upstairs.
Our bedroom door stood open.
I entered the guest room instead.
It was the room Ethan’s mother called unnecessary because “married people should sleep together.”
I closed the door.
Locked it.
Then pulled out my phone.
Three missed messages from Claire.
The newest read:
HE’S GOING TO TRY TO MAKE YOU SIGN A POSTNUP.
I sat on the edge of the bed.
Another message arrived.
DON’T.
Then:
HE TOLD ME YOU AGREED TO IT LAST MONTH.
My skin went cold.
I typed.
WHO ARE YOU?
The answer came almost immediately.
SOMEONE WHO HELPED HIM SET UP THE COMPANY.
WHY ARE YOU TELLING ME THIS?
The typing dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Returned.
BECAUSE I DIDN’T KNOW WHERE THE MONEY CAME FROM.
I stared.
Then another message.
AND BECAUSE HE LIED TO ME TOO.
I hesitated before typing the question I almost didn’t want answered.
ABOUT WHAT?
This time the response took longer.
Finally:
ABOUT YOU.
My stomach tightened.
Before I could ask more, Claire sent an address.
A coffee shop near the courthouse.
8:00 A.M.
COME ALONE.
I typed:
WHY SHOULD I TRUST YOU?
Her answer:
YOU SHOULDN’T.
A second message followed.
BUT BRING YOUR 2024 TAX RETURN.
I opened my folder and found it.
Page seventeen contained a Schedule E attachment I barely remembered.
Brooks Strategic Holdings.
A number.
$217,600.
Not forty thousand.
Two hundred seventeen thousand six hundred dollars.
I read it again.
And again.
Somewhere outside the guest room, the hallway floor creaked.
I turned toward the door.
A shadow stopped beneath it.
Ethan.
He didn’t knock.
He simply stood outside.
Then my phone lit up again.
Claire had sent a photograph.
A signature appeared at the bottom of a legal document.
May you like
My name.
Except I had never signed it.
