CHAPTER ELEVEN
NORA
Day Seven
Fear is embarrassing in daylight.
At two in the morning, the photograph of me entering my studio feels like proof that the city has grown eyes. At ten, under Maren's kitchen lights, it looks grainy and amateur, taken from across the street by someone who does not understand focal length.
I understand focal length.
That makes it worse.
The detective believes both messages came from the same person. The sender used an anonymized account, but the photograph contains a reflection from a storefront window that may help identify the camera position.
"You are not going to work today," Maren says.
"I can edit here."
"You are also not going to pretend productivity is a personality."
"Says the woman reading case files over breakfast."
"My hypocrisy is protected by attorney-client privilege."
Tessa calls at eleven. The team has assigned two officers permanently until the sender is found. She is careful to explain that Rhett will not receive reports about my location.
"He insisted on that," she says.
I stare at the contract on my laptop. "Is he at the hotel?"
"Yes."
"Send him here."
Silence.
"That was not a test," I say.
"I know. I am enjoying being surprised."
He arrives twenty minutes later.
Rhett stands outside Maren's door in dark jeans and a Breakers sweatshirt, his left shoulder stiff beneath the fabric.
He has not shaved. There are shadows beneath his eyes.
For most of our marriage, the public saw the version of him polished smooth by cameras.
I received the exhausted man who came home after midnight and ate cereal standing at the counter.
I loved that version best.
I step aside.
He enters but does not move farther than the foyer.
"You asked for me."
"The detective wants to know whether any former employees, fans, or sponsors have reason to target me. You know the team side better than I do."
Something flickers across his face. Disappointment, quickly buried. He had hoped I wanted him, not his information.
He does not punish me for it.
"I made a list," he says, holding up a folder. "Security has it. There were three fans removed from games this season for threatening players' families. Two people Damon blacklisted from events. NorthStar's social team has records of accounts that became aggressive after the leak."
"Did you sleep?"
His eyes meet mine. "Some."
"That means no."
"My mother said the same thing."
Maren takes the folder and retreats to the kitchen with professional discretion so obvious it becomes intrusive.
Rhett looks at my face as if checking for damage. "Are you frightened?"
The honest answer embarrasses me.
"Yes."
His hands close at his sides.
"Do not promise to destroy anyone," I say.
"I wasn't going to."
"Your jaw was."
A breath leaves him. "I want to fix it."
"You cannot fix a stranger with a camera."
"I know."
"And you cannot make my fear proof that I need to come home."
Pain moves through his expression. "I know that too."
I did not expect him to accept the accusation without defending himself.
He glances toward my open laptop. Ingrid's itinerary fills the screen.
"What's that?"
I could close it. Instead, I turn the computer toward him.
"A six-month assignment. Sweden, Finland, Norway. Women's hockey. I leave in four weeks and six days."
He reads the first page.
The room changes.
Rhett has always been physically controlled. Even injured, even furious, he conserves movement. Now he goes absolutely still.
"Lead photographer," he says.
"Yes."
"You accepted?"
"Yesterday."
He closes his eyes for one heartbeat.
Then he looks at me and says, "Good."
The word is quiet and clean.
I search his face for resentment, bargaining, an argument about the foundation or the divorce or the cruelty of leaving while the playoffs continue.
I find grief.
But no resistance.
"You don't have to pretend," I say.
"I'm not pretending. I hate that you'll be gone. I hate that I helped make leaving necessary. But you should take it. You should have taken Oslo two years ago."
"You said you needed me."
"I did. And I treated my need like authority."
My throat tightens.
He looks back at the itinerary. "Troms? in December?"
"October. The light will already be difficult."
"You like difficult light."
He remembers.
Of course he remembers. Rhett forgets appointments, passwords, and the location of his own passport. He remembers every sentence I say about a photograph.
"I do," I whisper.
He places the folder on the table and steps back. "The team plane can—"
I raise an eyebrow.
"Not a gift," he says quickly. "Never mind. Ingrid's company will handle travel."
Despite myself, I smile.
His gaze catches on it. He does not smile back, as if claiming the moment would frighten it away.
"There is one more thing," he says. "NorthStar contacted you."
"Maren told legal?"
"She told them to communicate through her. I saw the offer during contract review. You refused a lot of money."
"It wasn't theirs to buy."
"No."
He rubs the edge of his wedding band with his thumb. He is still wearing it.
"I found documents Damon handled without showing me," he says. "He told NorthStar there was no material change after we married. I was copied. I never opened the email."
"Are you telling me because you think it makes you less responsible?"
"No. I'm telling you because it makes the pattern worse. I outsourced the truth and then chose not to check what it cost you."
My eyes burn.
I wish he would be defensive. I know how to leave a man who refuses to understand. This version of Rhett keeps placing the knife in my hand and explaining where to cut.
"I don't know what to do with you like this," I say.
"You don't have to do anything."
He moves toward the door.
"Rhett."
He turns.
"Your shoulder. Is it all right?"
The relief in his face is so immediate I regret the question.
Then he controls it. "Bruised. Cleared to play."
"Good."
He nods and leaves.
Maren returns from the kitchen carrying two mugs.
"That was deeply inconvenient," she says.
"What was?"
"He behaved like a person capable of growth. Villainy is much simpler paperwork."
I look at the closed door.
"He said good."
"About the job?"
"He meant it."
Maren sets down the mugs. "Love can be real and still be insufficient."
"I know."
But for the first time since the red light went dark, I also wonder whether insufficiency has to be permanent.