Chapter 4 - The Woman in the Garage
The photograph was not dramatic.
There was no perfect angle.
No cinematic lighting.
No unmistakable view of both faces at once.
There was simply Vincent in profile, Camille's hand at the back of his neck, and their bodies close enough that no explanation involving business could survive for very long.
I sent the image to Eleanor before I looked at it twice.
Then I put the phone back into my robe pocket.
Mom was still staring through the stairwell window.
"I am going down there."
"No."
My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Mom turned toward me.
"He left you bleeding for her."
"I know."
"He stood beside your bed this morning and acted like you were the problem."
"I know."
"And now he is kissing her in the hospital garage while his newborn son is upstairs."
"I know."
Saying it three times did something strange to me.
The pain became less chaotic.
It stopped being a feeling and turned into a fact.
Facts could be used.
Facts could be preserved.
Facts did not care whether Vincent denied them.
I gripped the rail and forced myself to breathe through the ache in my abdomen.
"If you go down there, he knows I saw them."
Mom looked through the glass again.
"Maybe I want him to know."
"I don't."
She turned back to me.
I lowered my voice.
"Not yet."
For several seconds, Mom said nothing.
Then she nodded.
"Fine."
She looked at the nurse beside us.
"Please tell me there is a lawful amount of coffee I can drink before I commit a felony."
The nurse tried not to smile.
"I think we should get your daughter back to bed."
We did.
By the time Vincent returned to my room forty minutes later, I had washed my face and arranged the blankets over my legs.
I looked exhausted because I was exhausted.
For once, reality made the performance easy.
Vincent stopped just inside the doorway.
His tie was gone.
The top button of his shirt was open.
He smelled faintly of the same perfume.
"You look pale."
I stared at him.
There were a hundred things I could have said.
I chose the safest one.
"I walked too far."
"You shouldn't be walking around by yourself."
"I wasn't."
His eyes moved briefly toward Mom.
She was sitting by the window reading a magazine upside down.
I almost loved her enough to laugh.
Vincent came closer.
"The pediatrician says Lucas may be discharged tomorrow if the bilirubin keeps dropping."
"That's what she told me too."
A small crease appeared between his eyebrows.
He had expected to be the source of information.
"Good."
He looked toward the bassinet.
Lucas was sleeping with one fist tucked beneath his chin.
"I want to bring in a night nurse when we get home."
"We already have Marta."
"Marta is a nanny."
"She has newborn experience."
"I want someone medical."
I studied his face.
"Why?"
"Because you need rest."
"My doctor says I need to feed Lucas every two to three hours."
"You can pump."
"I can also decide how I care for my baby."
Vincent's expression changed again.
Not much.
Just enough.
The old version of me would have immediately softened my tone.
The old version of me would have added a joke, touched his arm, or apologized for being tense.
This time, I let the silence sit between us.
Finally, Vincent reached into his pocket.
"I have to go downtown."
"Business?"
He looked at me.
"Yes."
I nodded once.
"Of course."
He seemed to hear the contempt I had tried to hide.
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing."
I closed my eyes.
"I'm tired."
For a moment, I thought he might challenge me.
Then his phone vibrated.
He checked the screen.
"I'll see you tonight."
He kissed the top of Lucas's head.
He did not kiss me.
When the door closed behind him, Mom lowered the magazine.
"I have been on the same advertisement for seven minutes."
"You held it upside down."
She looked at the cover.
"That explains a lot."
My prepaid phone buzzed.
Eleanor had replied to the photograph.
"Keep the original image and do not edit it."
A second message followed.
"Do not confront either of them."
Then a third.
"I found the lawyer who drafted the trust documents."
I called her immediately.
"Who?"
"A man named Martin Keene."
"Vincent's lawyer?"
"One of them."
"Can you get the documents?"
"Not from him without authorization or discovery, but I may not need to."
"Why?"
"Because your husband left a copy with the hospital notary service."
I sat straighter.
"Why would he do that?"
"He requested a notary to come to your room this morning."
I felt the blood leave my face.
"No one told me."
"The request was canceled."
"By who?"
"The notary."
"Why?"
Eleanor paused.
"Because the nurse told her you had just undergone emergency surgery and were on medication."
I looked at Mom.
She was watching my face.
"He had arranged a notary before he gave me the papers."
"Yes."
The room felt suddenly too small.
"So it wasn't casual."
"No."
"And it wasn't something he decided to do after Lucas was born."
"Probably not."
"How do you know?"
"Because the cover letter on the notary request was dated three days before you went into labor."
I stopped breathing.
Three days.
Vincent had prepared those documents before we went to the hospital.
Before my hemorrhage.
Before the emergency surgery.
Before he could claim he was reacting to anything I said under medication.
"Can you get a copy of the cover letter?"
"I am working on it."
"Eleanor."
"Yes?"
"I saw him kiss Camille."
She was quiet for a moment.
"I assumed that was what the photograph showed."
"He left while I was in labor to be with her."
"It appears possible."
I almost shouted at her for being so careful.
Instead, I remembered what she had said.
Facts first.
Feelings later.
"What do we do now?"
"We figure out what those papers actually transfer."
"And then?"
"Then we figure out why he needed your signature before you understood what he was doing."
I spent the next two hours searching my memory instead of the internet.
Vincent had always handled the details of our finances.
He paid the property taxes.
He met with accountants.
He renewed insurance policies.
He moved money between accounts and told me it was more efficient that way.
I had signed documents over the years.
Tax returns.
Mortgage refinances.
Insurance forms.
Company benefit forms.
Most of the time, I had signed where he pointed.
The thought made me sick.
"Mom."
She looked up.
"How many times have you seen me sign something Vincent brought home?"
Her expression changed.
"A lot."
"Did I ever read everything?"
Mom did not answer.
She did not need to.
I thought of all the evenings Vincent had come home late and placed a stack of papers on the kitchen island.
"I need these tonight."
I had always trusted him.
I had always believed marriage meant there was no need to count the knives when you set the table.
Now I wondered how many of them had been pointed at me the entire time.
That evening, Lucas's bilirubin dropped again.
The pediatrician smiled when she gave me the number.
"If he continues like this, I am comfortable with discharge tomorrow."
Relief nearly broke me.
I held Lucas against my chest and cried for the first time since surgery.
Not because of Vincent.
Because my baby was getting better.
Mom sat beside me and rubbed my shoulder.
"There she is."
"Who?"
"My daughter."
I wiped my face.
"I've been here."
"No."
She shook her head.
"You've been trying to survive."
She looked down at Lucas.
"That is different."
Vincent did not come back that night.
At ten forty, he texted me from his regular number.
Running late.
Get some sleep.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
Then another message appeared.
This one came from an unknown number.
There was no greeting.
No name.
Just one sentence.
Ask your husband where he was between 11:47 p.m. and 4:32 a.m. the night your son was born.
My heart started pounding.
I showed the message to Mom.
"Who sent that?"
"I don't know."
I forwarded it to Eleanor.
She called immediately.
"Do not reply."
"What if it's Camille?"
"Do not reply."
"What if someone is trying to help me?"
"Then they can help without you giving them information first."
I looked at the time stamps again.
11:47 p.m.
That was less than an hour after Mom had told Vincent I could die.
4:32 a.m.
That was shortly before he arrived back at the hospital.
"Eleanor, what was he doing for almost five hours?"
"I don't know."
"Somebody does."
"Yes."
Her voice sharpened.
"And whoever sent that message wants you to know they know."
I slept with the prepaid phone under my pillow.
At six the next morning, another message arrived from the same number.
This time, it contained a photograph.
Vincent was standing outside a hotel entrance.
Camille was beside him.
His hand rested on the small of her back.
The timestamp in the corner read 12:18 a.m.
I stared at the image until Mom woke.
Then I saw the name printed on the awning above them.
The Langham Chicago.
The hospital was less than two miles away.
He had been close enough to return.
May you like
He had simply chosen not to.
