Chapter 21 #2
I drove to Lindsay's office with Sally's folder on my passenger seat, thinking about Scarlet in Phoenix and Sally's sister who'd chosen death over continuing to fight a man who'd made her question her own reality.
I wouldn't be another casualty of Brett's manipulation. Not when I finally understood the scope of what I was fighting against.
I walked through Lindsay’s office door carrying evidence that would destroy whatever remained of Brett's professional reputation. She took one look at me and cleared her afternoon schedule.
"Tell me everything," she said, settling behind her desk with the attention of someone preparing for war.
I spread Sally's documentation across her conference table, explaining the pattern of predatory behavior and corporate protection that had enabled Brett's misconduct for years. Lindsay's expression grew more satisfied with each email thread and personnel record I shared.
"This is devastating," she said, scrolling through Brett's correspondence with women who'd trusted him to advance their careers instead of exploit their ambition. "Not just for your divorce case, but for any attempt he might make to discredit you publicly."
"Sally warned me he's already started," I said. "Telling people I'm having a breakdown, that I'm making false accusations because I'm mentally unstable."
"Classic narcissist playbook," Lindsay said, making notes. "Discredit the victim, rewrite the narrative, make everyone question her credibility instead of examining his behavior."
She gathered the documents. “But this evidence makes that approach impossible. We're not dealing with one affair that he can explain away as a mistake. We're dealing with a predatory behavior that establishes a clear pattern of exploitation."
"What do we do with it?"
"We use it strategically. First, we document everything with the court to protect against any attempt he might make to claim you're an unreliable witness.
Second, we share relevant portions with his company to ensure their investigation includes his full history of misconduct.
Third, we prepare for whatever character assassination he's planning by getting ahead of the narrative. "
Lindsay's confidence was infectious. I felt like I was working with someone who understood exactly what Brett was capable of and how to neutralize his advantages.
"There's something else," I said, pulling out my phone to show her the text messages Sally had forwarded. "Brett's been reaching out to people in our social circle, testing the waters about how they'd react to certain information about my mental health."
Lindsay studied the forwarded messages. "He's laying groundwork for a comprehensive attack on your credibility. Making sure he has allies who'll support his version of events when this becomes public."
"Can we stop it?"
"We can get ahead of it. Controlled disclosure of the truth before he has a chance to establish his false narrative.
" She made more notes, strategic planning that looked like military tactics adapted for family court.
"The key is timing. We need to move fast enough to establish the real story before his version takes hold. "
I left Lindsay's office feeling like I'd just armed myself with weapons I hadn't known existed. Sally's evidence didn't just prove Brett was a cheating husband. It proved he was a predator who'd been manipulating women for years while his company looked the other way.
The drive home took thirty minutes. I wasn’t angry anymore, but strategically empowered. I had evidence that would destroy any attempt Brett made to rewrite our story.
I pulled into our driveway to find Kimberly's car parked next to another vehicle I didn't recognize.
A sleek silver Mercedes.
Inside, I found her in the kitchen with a young woman I'd known since she was eight years old. Amanda Kennedy had been practically a fixture in our house through middle and high school, before heading off to Duke while Kimberly chose Yale.
"Hi, Mrs. Holmes," Amanda said, standing to give me the kind of hug that came from years of sleepovers and carpools and birthday parties. She looked good. The college years had given her that polished confidence that came from sorority life and academic success. "It's so good to see you."
"Amanda, sweetheart," I said, happy to see her despite everything else falling apart. "How's Duke treating you? Your parents must be so proud."
"Really well, thanks. I'm majoring in economics now, which is way more interesting than I thought it would be.
" She glanced at Kimberly with a Quick Look.
She looked like someone who'd been briefed on family tensions but wasn't sure how much she was supposed to know.
"Kim was just telling me about her organic chemistry nightmares. "
Smart girl. Kimberly had obviously filled her in on the broad strokes. Family stress, parents having problems without going into details that weren't hers to share. The kind of loyal discretion that came from real friendship.
"We were just planning to go shopping," Kimberly said, gathering her purse. "Amanda needs some things for a Duke event next week, and I need to get out of this house for a few hours."
"That sounds perfect," I said, grateful that Amanda's presence would keep Kimberly distracted from asking too many questions about my mysterious morning meeting. "Say hi to your parents for me, Amanda. I haven't seen them since the Reynoldses' anniversary party."
"I will," Amanda said, though something flickered in her expression that suggested the Kennedys had probably heard rumors about Brett and me that made casual social interactions complicated.
After they left, I poured myself a glass of wine from Brett's collection and sat at the kitchen island with my phone, thinking about conversations I needed to have and decisions that couldn't be postponed much longer.
My mother still didn't know about the divorce.
I'd specifically asked Gary and Cheryl not to tell her until I could find the right time and approach.
But "the right time" kept getting postponed because I had no idea how to explain to a seventy-eight-year-old woman that her son-in-law had been living a double life while her daughter filed for divorce.
My mother had been raised in a generation where women endured whatever their husbands did without complaint. Where divorce was failure, affairs were something wives somehow deserved, and leaving your marriage meant acknowledging you hadn't been woman enough to keep your man satisfied at home.
She'd probably ask what I'd done wrong. What I could have done differently.
Why I hadn't tried harder to save something that had taken twenty-three years to build.
The idea of having that conversation made me want to finish the entire bottle of wine and pretend my mother lived too far away to require explanations about why her daughter had become a cautionary tale.
But she deserved to hear it from me rather than discovering it through gossip or overhearing conversations between Gary and Cheryl when they thought she wasn't paying attention.
I picked up my phone and dialed the assisted living facility, asking to be connected to my mother's apartment. She answered on the third ring, her tone bright with the pleasure that came from unexpected contact with family.
"Lauren, sweetheart," she said, and I could hear the smile in her tone. "What a lovely surprise. How are you?"
"I'm good, Mom," I said, which was mostly true despite everything that had exploded in the past two weeks. "I was wondering if I could drive up next weekend to visit you. Maybe take you to that seafood place you like for dinner."
"That would be wonderful. Is everything all right? You sound different."
Of course she could hear it in my tone. Mothers developed radar for their children's emotional states that didn't diminish with age or distance. She probably sensed something was wrong before I'd finished saying hello.
"I just have some things I'd like to talk to you about," I said, choosing honesty over deflection. "Nothing urgent, just family stuff that's easier to discuss in person."
"Is it Brett?" she asked, cutting straight to the heart of whatever she'd been sensing in my tone.
"We'll talk about it when I see you," I said, thankful for any excuse to postpone this conversation until I could look at her face and gauge her reaction in real time. "I love you, Mom."
"I love you too, sweetheart. Drive safely when you come."