Chapter 2 - The Christmas Photos Folder
Eleanor stared at the little boy as if she had seen a ghost.
“Who is Oliver?” I asked.
She sat on the edge of the bed.
For several seconds, she said nothing.
That frightened me more than anything she could have said.
“Eleanor.”
“Samantha's son.”
“I know she has a son. Why do you know his name?”
Her eyes closed briefly.
“Because I met him.”
The room went still.
“When?”
“Three weeks ago.”
I stood.
“You met Samantha's child three weeks ago?”
“Not intentionally.”
She explained that she had been leaving her doctor's office when she saw Jonathan across the street outside a café.
He was with Samantha.
And Oliver.
Eleanor had almost approached them.
Then she stopped because Jonathan crouched to zip the boy's coat with a familiarity that bothered her.
“That was when I started believing my suspicions might be more than suspicions.”
“You said October.”
“I first noticed Samantha's name in October. I saw the boy in December.”
“How did you know his name?”
“Jonathan called him Oliver.”
I looked again at the photograph.
The boy appeared about seven.
Dark hair.
Winter coat.
Jonathan's hand rested on his shoulder.
My mind went somewhere I didn't want it to go.
“How old is he?”
“I don't know.”
“Does he look like Jonathan?”
“Clara—”
“Does he?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“I don't know.”
That meant yes enough to hurt.
I returned to the payment.
$2,800.
“What is this?”
Eleanor shook her head.
“I don't know.”
“You reacted to it.”
“Because Richard used to transfer that exact amount to Jonathan every month.”
“When?”
“Years ago. When he was in graduate school.”
“That doesn't explain this.”
“No.”
“Then what does?”
“I don't know yet.”
Yet.
That word mattered.
By breakfast, Richard knew everything we knew.
He read the statements without defending his son.
Then he removed his glasses.
“Call a lawyer.”
The suggestion shocked me.
Eleanor didn't react.
Richard looked at me.
“I'm not telling you to divorce Jonathan. That's your decision. I'm telling you not to confront someone about money until you understand the money.”
I nodded.
For the first time since the mall, I felt something other than pain.
Control.
I called a family-law attorney recommended by a colleague.
She couldn't meet until afternoon, but her assistant told me something important: preserve records I already had lawful access to, don't impersonate Jonathan to enter private accounts, don't destroy or move shared funds, and document everything.
So I did.
By noon, CHRISTMAS PHOTOS contained forty-seven files.
At 12:16, Samantha texted me.
I knew it was her because she identified herself.
Clara, this is Samantha. We should talk without Jonathan.
I stared at the message.
Eleanor read it over my shoulder.
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
“Then don't go alone.”
We chose a café in Lincoln Park.
Eleanor sat across the room.
Samantha arrived twelve minutes late.
Without Jonathan, she looked different.
Less confident.
More tired.
She placed her phone on the table.
“I know you hate me.”
“I don't know you well enough to hate you.”
That seemed to surprise her.
She looked down.
“Jonathan told me your marriage was basically over.”
“But you knew we were married.”
“Yes.”
“That's not the same thing as believing it was over.”
“No.”
“Did you sleep with my husband?”
She went quiet.
That was an answer.
“When?”
“October.”
The hotel.
My chest tightened.
“How long?”
She rubbed her thumb against her coffee cup.
“We reconnected in September.”
“Reconnected.”
“We went to high school together.”
“I know.”
Her eyes flicked toward Eleanor.
“Of course she told you.”
“What does that mean?”
“Jonathan said his mother never liked me.”
Eleanor, twenty feet away, pretended to read her phone.
“Why did you ask to meet me?”
Samantha swallowed.
“Because Jonathan lied to me too.”
“About what?”
She looked directly at me.
“Money.”
I didn't speak.
“He told me he was helping Oliver.”
“Why?”
“Because Oliver's father stopped paying support.”
“Jonathan isn't responsible for your child.”
“No.”
“Then why is he paying $2,800 a month?”
Her face changed.
So she knew about the amount.
“Where did you see that?”
“Our joint records.”
Samantha leaned back.
“He told me that was his personal money.”
“It isn't.”
Her eyes filled with alarm.
“What did he tell you it was for?”
She hesitated.
“Rent.”
“Your rent?”
“Yes.”
There it was.
Jonathan was using marital funds to pay another woman's rent.
I expected rage.
Instead, I felt strangely calm.
Maybe there was a point where pain became so large that the mind stopped trying to absorb all of it at once.
“What about the jewelry?”
Her hand moved unconsciously toward her coat.
I noticed a necklace.
Small diamond pendant.
“Was that $1,240?”
She touched it.
Then immediately removed her hand.
“Oh God.”
“Was it?”
“He said he'd bought it with a bonus.”
I almost laughed.
Of course he had.
Samantha looked ashamed.
“I didn't know he was using your money.”
“You knew he was using something that belonged to our marriage.”
“Yes.”
She didn't defend herself.
That was the first honest thing I appreciated about her.
Then she said, “But that's not why I contacted you.”
“Why did you?”
She looked toward Eleanor.
Then back at me.
“Because after you left the mall, Jonathan panicked.”
“What did he say?”
“He said you couldn't be allowed to start looking at the accounts.”
A cold sensation moved through me.
“Why?”
“He wouldn't tell me.”
“Then why warn me?”
“Because he asked me to lie.”
“About what?”
Samantha opened her handbag.
She removed an envelope.
Inside was a hotel receipt.
October.
Room 814.
Jonathan's name appeared on it.
So did Samantha's.
But that wasn't what she wanted me to see.
At the bottom was a second charge.
Meeting-room rental.
Different date.
Different name.
I leaned closer.
“What is this?”
“I don't know,” Samantha said. “But Jonathan accidentally left this in my apartment.”
The name on the meeting-room charge was not Jonathan's.
It was Richard Hale.
My father-in-law.
I looked across the café.
Eleanor had gone completely still.
Samantha whispered, “Jonathan told me never to show that page to anyone.”
Then Eleanor's phone rang.
She answered.
Her expression changed instantly.
“What?”
She stood.
“When?”
A pause.
“Don't touch anything.”
She hung up and rushed toward us.
“Richard just called.”
“What happened?”
Eleanor looked at me.
“Someone broke into the house.”
My stomach dropped.
“Was anything taken?”
She nodded.
“Only one thing.”
“What?”
“The laptop you used this morning.”
I reached instinctively for my bag.
My laptop was inside it.
Eleanor realized it at the same moment.
“Then what laptop?”
She looked terrified.
“The old one from Jonathan's bedroom.”
Samantha suddenly grabbed my wrist.
“Clara.”
“What?”
She was staring through the café window.
A man stood across the street.
He was holding a phone toward us.
May you like
The moment I looked at him, he lowered it.
Then he turned and walked away.
