Then paused.
“Don’t answer Ethan tonight unless you want to.”
“I won’t.”
“And call your attorney tomorrow.”
“I will.”
He nodded.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The door closed.
I locked it.
Then locked the security latch.
Then checked both twice.
Old habits.
I changed Lily into pajamas without waking her.
I washed my face.
I stood beneath the shower until the water turned lukewarm.
Then, wearing an oversized T-shirt, I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
My body was exhausted.
My mind refused to stop.
At 11:47 p.m., my phone buzzed.
Ethan.
I ignored it.
A minute later, another message appeared.
I know you don’t trust me. You have every reason not to. But please don’t involve Prescott.
I stared at the words.
That was new.
Ethan rarely admitted fault.
Never directly.
I typed:
Why were you calling the airport?
My thumb hovered.
Then I deleted it.
Another message came.
This is bigger than our divorce.
I sat up.
A moment later:
Check your email. Search “Northbridge.”
I frowned.
Northbridge?
I had never heard the word.
I opened my email account.
There were 18,000 messages because apparently deleting promotional emails had been another responsibility I abandoned during motherhood.
I typed NORTHBRIDGE into the search bar.
Three results appeared.
All old.
The first dated eighteen months earlier.
The sender was Ethan.
Subject line:
Northbridge documents
I opened it.
The body contained only one sentence.
Please print these before Friday.
There was an attachment.
A PDF.
I vaguely remembered it.
Ethan sometimes sent documents home when his office printer was being serviced. I had probably printed them and left them on his desk without reading them.
I opened the attachment.
Corporate pages.
Legal language.
Names I didn’t recognize.
I scrolled.
Northbridge Medical Logistics LLC.
My eyes stopped.
Medical.
Then another name caught my attention.
Prescott Health Systems.
I sat completely still.
I read the page again.
Northbridge Medical Logistics.
