Chapter 4 A Different Kind of Man
Monday morning I wake up early and sit on the back patio with my coffee.
The routine hasn't changed but everything around it has.
The coffee tastes the same. The chair still wobbles.
The neighbor's air conditioner still hums. But I'm different now.
I'm someone who knows the truth and hasn't decided yet what to do with it.
I get ready for work. Shower. Hair pulled back.
Light makeup. Toast at the counter. I check my phone.
Twenty-two missed calls from Kirk over the weekend.
Eleven text messages. I scroll through the texts quickly.
They start with confusion and concern and gradually shift into frustration.
The last one from late Sunday night says I don't know what's going on but you're being really unfair right now. I'm being unfair. Incredible.
I delete all of them and drive to work.
At City Hall I go directly to the Records Department and start working through the remaining deed requests from Henderson Title.
Roger is already at his desk organizing a new batch of archive folders.
He says good morning and asks about my weekend.
I tell him it was fine. He doesn't press.
Roger has a gift for reading the room without needing to comment on it.
Around nine thirty I go upstairs and find Amanda at her desk. She looks at me with raised eyebrows and mouths "Did you call?" I shake my head. Fiona Grant's office doesn't open until ten. Amanda holds up her phone and points at it. I nod. I'll call.
At ten o'clock I step outside to the employee parking lot and call the number Amanda gave me. A receptionist answers.
"Grant Law Office. How can I help you?"
"I'd like to schedule a consultation with Fiona Grant. My friend Amanda Owens recommended her."
"Of course. Can I ask what the consultation is regarding?"
"I need help separating shared finances from a long-term relationship. We're not married."
"Understood. Ms. Grant has an opening this Thursday at two o'clock. Would that work?"
"That's perfect. Thank you."
I give her my name and phone number and she confirms the appointment.
When I hang up I stand in the parking lot for a moment and look across the street at the County Archives building.
It's a single-story brick structure with a flat roof and narrow windows.
A small sign by the entrance reads "Wildhorse County Archives" in gold lettering.
I'll be going over there later this week to begin the records preservation project.
Rowena sent me the inventory checklist this morning along with a reminder to coordinate with the county archivist.
Ross Hughes. I haven't thought about the project much since Friday night. Everything since then has been consumed by Kirk and the pregnancy and the packing and the lawyer. But the project is still happening. My job is still happening. My life is still happening even though it feels different now.
I go back inside and spend the rest of the morning finishing the Henderson Title requests.
I certify the last four copies and prepare them for pickup.
Roger and I organize the archive room after lunch and I start pulling together the list of documents that might qualify for transfer to the County Archives.
The oldest records in our collection date back to the 1890s.
Property deeds and land grants and early council meeting minutes written by hand on paper that's yellowed and brittle.
Some of these documents are in decent condition.
Others need professional preservation work that our department isn't equipped to handle.
I spend the afternoon reviewing the inventory and making notes.
Which documents are most fragile. Which ones are most historically significant.
Which ones need immediate attention and which ones can wait.
The work is absorbing in a way that I'm grateful for right now.
It gives my brain something productive to focus on instead of looping through the same painful thoughts about Kirk.
At five o'clock I pack up my things and head out. Amanda catches me in the lobby.
"Thursday at two," I tell her before she can ask.
"Good. Do you want me to come with you?"
"No. I need to do this on my own."
"Okay. But call me after."
"I will."
I drive home and eat leftovers and water the garden and go to bed early.
Tuesday and Wednesday pass the same way.
Work. Home. Sleep. Kirk's calls and texts slow down to two or three a day.
I don't respond to any of them. On Wednesday evening I get a text that says I came by your house and knocked.
I know you were home. We need to talk about this. I read it once and delete it.
Thursday arrives and I leave work at one thirty to make my two o'clock appointment at Grant Law Office.
The office is on Davis Street in a small professional building between a dentist's office and an accounting firm.
The reception area is clean and simply furnished with neutral walls and framed certificates.
The receptionist is a woman in her forties named Gail who offers me water and asks me to have a seat.
Fiona Grant comes out to greet me at exactly two o'clock. She's about fifty years old with short gray hair and glasses and a calm steady presence that immediately puts me at ease. She shakes my hand firmly and leads me to her office.
Her office is organized in a way that I respect. Everything has a place. Files are labeled and shelved neatly. Her desk is clean except for a notepad and a pen and a laptop. She sits across from me and opens the notepad.
"Brook. Thank you for coming in. Amanda speaks very highly of you. Why don't you tell me what's going on."
I tell her. The relationship. The nine years.
The shared finances. The pregnancy I overheard.
The fact that we aren't married and never were.
Fiona listens carefully and takes notes.
She doesn't react. She doesn't offer opinions on Kirk's behavior.
She just gathers information the way a professional gathers information. Clearly and completely.
When I finish she sets her pen down and looks at me.
"Here's where we are," she says. "The good news is that because you're not married there's no divorce process to go through. The challenging news is that untangling shared finances from a nine-year relationship can still be complicated. Especially if there are joint accounts and shared debts."
"There's a joint savings account. I've been putting in five hundred dollars a month for almost four years. The balance is about six thousand right now."
Fiona writes that down. "And how much should be in there based on your contributions?"
"At least twenty-four thousand from my side. He was supposed to match it."
"So the account should hold roughly forty-eight thousand if both parties contributed equally."
"Yes."
"And it has six thousand."
"Yes."
She writes that down too. "What about the credit cards?"
"There are two. Both in both our names. I'm not sure what the balances are."
"Can you find out?"
"I think so. I should be able to access the statements online."
"Do that as soon as you get home. Print everything you can. Statements going back at least twelve months. I need to see the spending patterns and whether there's debt you don't know about."
I nod. My stomach tightens. The idea that there might be debt I don't know about is something I've been avoiding thinking about since Amanda first mentioned it.
But Fiona's calm tone makes it feel manageable.
She's not alarmed. She's practical. She's dealt with situations far worse than mine and she knows exactly what to look for.
"Here's what I'd recommend," she says. "First we need a complete picture of your shared financial obligations.
Every account. Every card. Every loan or payment that has both your names on it.
Once we know what we're dealing with I can advise you on how to separate cleanly and make sure you recover as much of your contribution as possible. "
"Is that realistic? Recovering what I put in?"
"It depends on what's left and what he's willing to cooperate on. But yes. You made documented contributions to a shared account. That money didn't disappear on its own. Someone spent it. And if it wasn't you then we have a conversation to have with the person who did."
I leave Fiona's office at three fifteen feeling more focused than I have in days. She gave me a checklist. Things to gather. Statements to print. Accounts to review. Having a list helps. Having a plan helps. Having someone in my corner who knows what she's doing helps more than I expected.
I drive back to City Hall to finish the last hour of my shift. Amanda is waiting in the parking lot. She's leaning against her car with her arms crossed.
"Well?"
"She's good. She's exactly what I need."
"Told you."
"She wants me to pull all the financial statements tonight. Credit cards. The joint savings. Everything."
Amanda nods. "Good. Do you want help?"
"No. I think I need to see it for myself."
"Okay. But I'm here."
"I know."
That evening I sit at my kitchen table with my laptop and start pulling records.
The joint savings account first. I log in and download every statement going back to the beginning.
Four years of transactions. My deposits are there every month.
Five hundred dollars on the first of every month without fail.
Kirk's deposits are inconsistent. Some months he put in five hundred.
Some months three hundred. Some months nothing at all.
And starting about eighteen months ago there are withdrawals.
Cash withdrawals. Three hundred here. Five hundred there.
Eight hundred in one instance. None of them are mine.