Chapter 5 - August Fourteenth
“Rebecca Lane.”
Claire’s voice was barely audible.
Nobody moved.
Vanessa looked at Claire.
I looked at Margaret.
Margaret looked at the ultrasound.
“You know her?” I asked.
Claire stepped into the room.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She worked for Ethan.”
The answer came too quickly.
I stood.
“At his law firm?”
“No.”
“Then where?”
“Brooks Strategic Holdings.”
My heartbeat accelerated.
“What did she do?”
“Administrative work.”
“You said you helped set up the company.”
“I did.”
“You never mentioned Rebecca.”
“I didn’t know she mattered.”
“She has an ultrasound in a condo my husband owns.”
Claire closed the office door behind her.
“I didn’t know about the condo.”
Vanessa spoke.
“You knew the company was buying property.”
“One property.”
“This property.”
“I never saw the address.”
I watched the two women.
Each seemed to possess pieces of my marriage that I had never been given.
The humiliation rose hot beneath my skin.
Margaret must have noticed.
“Everyone sit.”
I didn’t.
“I’m done sitting while strangers explain my husband to me.”
Margaret nodded.
“Fair.”
I faced Claire.
“What happened August fourteenth?”
She hesitated.
“Last year?”
“The note doesn’t specify.”
“Then I don’t know.”
“You recognized Rebecca.”
“Yes.”
“Tell me everything.”
Claire placed her bag on the table.
“She started working for the holding company about eighteen months ago.”
“Why did a shell company need an employee?”
“I asked the same thing.”
“And?”
“Ethan said she handled property administration.”
“Did they have an affair?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you suspect one?”
Claire didn’t answer.
That was an answer.
I looked away.
My chest hurt.
Not dramatically.
Physically.
Like pressure beneath my ribs.
“Why?”
Claire exhaled.
“They were close.”
“How close?”
“He called her often.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“No.”
“Did you see them together?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Lunch. Meetings.”
“Touching?”
“No.”
“Kissing?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
Claire looked uncomfortable.
“Rebecca knew things.”
“What things?”
“His schedule. Personal appointments. Details about you.”
I turned.
“About me?”
“She once reminded him your mother’s birthday was coming.”
My stomach turned.
“How did she know?”
“I assumed he told her.”
Why would Ethan tell another woman my mother’s birthday?
Then again, why did any of this happen?
Margaret picked up the note.
“August fourteenth. Can anyone connect that date to the company?”
Claire opened her laptop.
“I can check.”
Minutes later, she found something.
“Here.”
A transaction.
August 14.
$26,000.
Paid to a private medical clinic.
My mouth went dry.
“For what?” I asked.
“No description.”
“Rebecca?”
“No patient name.”
Vanessa whispered, “The nursery started three weeks later.”
Silence.
My thoughts raced.
A medical payment.
Then a nursery.
Then an ultrasound.
The obvious conclusion sat in the center of the room.
I refused to say it without proof.
“When was the ultrasound taken?” Margaret asked.
Vanessa turned it over.
“Date printed here.”
November 6.
Claire calculated.
“If the pregnancy was early—”
“Stop.”
Everyone looked at me.
“I’m not doing this.”
“What?”
“I’m not building a story out of dates.”
Margaret nodded approvingly.
“Good.”
“I want facts.”
“Then we find Rebecca.”
Claire typed her name.
The address associated with company payroll was outdated.
Phone disconnected.
LinkedIn inactive.
No recent social accounts.
Then Vanessa spoke.
“I know someone who might know.”
“Who?”
“The building manager.”
“He knew Rebecca?”
“He once asked whether she was still approved for access.”
My stomach tightened.
“She had access to the condo?”
“Yes.”
We called.
The manager remembered her.
“She came often last fall,” he said.
“How often?” Margaret asked.
“Couple times a week.”
“With Ethan?”
“Sometimes.”
“Did she live there?”
“No.”
“Did you know she was pregnant?”
Long pause.
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“When did you last see her?”
“January.”
“Was she still pregnant?”
Another pause.
“No.”
The room went silent.
Margaret spoke carefully.
“Did you ever see a baby?”
“No.”
“Do you know where she went?”
“No.”
The manager hesitated.
“Actually…”
“What?”
“She left an envelope.”
My eyes opened.
“For who?”
“He said if a blonde woman named Mrs. Brooks ever came asking questions, give it to her.”
Nobody spoke.
I stared at the phone.
“When?”
“January twenty-second.”
Seven months before I knew the condo existed.
Seven months before I filed for divorce.
Rebecca had expected me.
“Do you still have it?”
“Yes.”
“I’m coming.”
Margaret objected.
“We can send someone.”
“No.”
“You don’t know what’s inside.”
“That’s why I’m going.”
She studied me.
Then nodded.
“We go together.”
The condominium building was ten minutes away.
Glass lobby.
Polished stone.
Doorman.
Exactly the kind of place Ethan would describe as unnecessary luxury if I had suggested living there.
The manager met us in an office behind the front desk.
He was older, nervous, and clearly regretted becoming involved.
He handed me a white envelope.
My name was written across it.
Same handwriting.
Rebecca.
I opened it.
Inside was a key.
A note.
And a receipt.
The note read:
IF YOU’RE READING THIS, HE FINALLY USED THE WORD TOO MANY TIMES.
My hands started shaking.
Margaret read over my shoulder.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
But I did know one thing.
Rebecca knew about the threats.
How?
The note continued.
HE TOLD ME YOU WOULD NEVER LEAVE BECAUSE YOU WERE TOO AFRAID.
I stopped.
There it was.
Not my imagination.
Not misunderstanding.
Ethan had described my fear to someone else.
He knew.
He had always known.
The next line:
I BELIEVED HIM FOR TOO LONG.
Then:
THE KEY OPENS STORAGE ROOM B-17.
Margaret looked at the manager.
“Where is that?”
“Basement.”
He led us down.
B-17 was small.
Metal door.
Concrete corridor.
My hand shook as I inserted the key.
The lock opened.
Inside stood three boxes.
One filing cabinet.
A baby stroller still in packaging.
And a crib.
Unassembled.
My stomach tightened.
Margaret turned on the overhead light.
I opened the first box.
Financial records.
Second.
Personal documents.
Third.
Photographs.
Ethan.
Rebecca.
Not kissing.
Not embracing.
But together.
At restaurants.
At the condo.
At a clinic.
Then I found a hospital photograph.
Rebecca in a bed.
Pale.
Tired.
Ethan beside her.
His hand on her shoulder.
And in Rebecca’s arms—
A baby.
I stopped breathing.
Margaret took the photograph.
“Date?”
I turned it over.
April 2.
Six months ago.
The same week Ethan had told me he was attending a legal conference in Boston.
My knees weakened.
Margaret guided me to a chair.
“I’m okay.”
“You don’t have to be.”
“I need to finish.”
I opened the filing cabinet.
The first drawer contained company papers.
The second—
letters.
Dozens.
All addressed to me.
Never mailed.
I opened the first.
Dear Mrs. Brooks,
You don’t know me, but your husband told me you agreed to everything.
Second:
He said you knew about the money.
Third:
He said you knew about me.
My hands shook.
Fourth:
I learned today that none of that was true.
Fifth:
I am sorry.
Then I reached a letter dated April 4.
Two days after the hospital photograph.
I unfolded it.
My eyes found one sentence.
The baby is not Ethan’s.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
Margaret leaned closer.
I continued.
But he wants everyone to believe she is.
My pulse thundered.
Why?
Next line.
Because the truth about her father would expose what Ethan did on August fourteenth.
A sound came from the storage hallway.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Coming toward us.
Margaret stood.
The manager backed toward the door.
Someone stopped outside B-17.
May you like
Then Ethan’s voice came from the other side.
“Open the door.”
