Chapter 6
Claire Haddon arrives at four with a litigation tote, silver reading glasses, and the energy of a woman who has never once used "circle back" unless she meant a noose.
I like her immediately.
"Honor Fairbanks," she says, shaking my hand. "I’m sorry your husband is a cliché."
"Thank you. People keep saying they’re sorry I’m going through this, which is kind, but yours has seasoning."
Claire’s mouth twitches. "Abel said you’d be prepared."
"Useful?"
"He said smart. I downgraded until proven otherwise."
"Fair."
Abel stands near the records table, jacket back on, face neutral. Too neutral. I can tell he noticed me noticing.
Claire opens her tote and removes a folder with a red tab.
"We found Dr. Nikhil Mehta’s refusal letter."
My pulse jumps.
"The evaluator."
"The evaluator they tried to hire," Claire says. "Important distinction."
She slides the letter across the table.
I read it once.
Then again, slower.
Dr. Mehta writes in direct, professional language that he cannot conduct an evaluation when the requesting parties have provided a draft conclusion, selected facts, and a proposed statement of incapacity before meeting the subject.
He notes that grief counseling, by itself, does not indicate incapacity.
He also notes that excluding the subject from scheduling correspondence raises consent concerns.
I stop on that line.
"He saw it."
Abel’s voice is low. "Yes."
I press two fingers to the paper.
Claire watches me carefully.
"Dr. Mehta is willing to testify."
"Why?"
"Because he is angry."
"At me?"
"At them."
Oh.
That hits harder than I expect, but I do not say so. I have retired public emotional collapses until further notice.
"What’s next?" I ask.
Claire pulls out a legal pad. "We answer their petition with a counter-petition. Removal of Marshall as co-trustee for breach of fiduciary duty. Surcharge for losses and fees. Temporary restraining order on migration. Referral request for Sabine’s licensing board.
We also ask the court to confirm your authority as sole acting trustee pending full accounting. "
"That sounds expensive."
"It is."
"Dad would love that. He believed people should suffer in court if they behave badly."
Abel looks down at the table.
I catch the almost-smile anyway.
Claire taps the folder. "Your notebook matters. The access logs matter. The calendar edits matter. We need the donor-facing narrative too."
"You mean the whisper campaign."
"I mean the whisper campaign after I give it a haircut."
I may love Claire.
For two hours, we build the response.
Claire asks questions like darts. Abel answers only when the trust language matters. I fill in people, rooms, who stood where, who heard what. We map the incident log against documents. The pattern Sabine wanted becomes evidence. Not for her.
By seven, Claire leaves with copies, warnings, and the promise to file as soon as I approve the final petition.
Abel stays behind to lock the records room.
The building is quiet now. The foundation after hours has a different personality. Less donor polish. More stale coffee, old carpet, copy toner, and the hum of servers that have heard too much.
"You should eat," Abel says.
"Did all men attend the same seminar?"
"Probably. Mine had sandwiches."
"Marshall says it like I’m a houseplant."
"I’m saying it because you’ve been working for ten hours and your hands are shaking."
I look down.
They are.
Rude hands. Disloyal.
"I had almonds."
"That is not dinner."
"They were salted."
"Still no."
The ridiculousness of it gets through. I laugh. My eyes sting. Then I get furious because I refuse to cry over almonds in front of a beautiful lawyer with forearms.
Abel sees too much. He does not move closer.
"Honor."
"Don’t be nice."
"I’m not especially nice."
"You are being careful."
"Yes."
"That might be worse."
He absorbs that. His gaze drops to my mouth once, then returns to my eyes.
There is no pretending I missed it.
No pretending my breath did not catch.
The records room feels smaller. The table between us holds my father’s files, my notebook, Dr. Mehta’s letter, and enough bad timing to make my pulse act up.
"Abel," I say.
Saying his name feels too intimate.
"You’re married," he says.
I look away first because I hate that he is right. I hate that I want him to be less right. I hate that Marshall has made a mockery of the marriage and still gets to stand between me and the first honest desire I have felt in months.
"Not in any way that matters," I say.
"It matters because you still have to end it for yourself, with no fog around the choice."
"I know."
"And because Marshall will use anything he can."
"I know that too."
Abel’s jaw flexes. "If I touch you tonight, I give him ammunition."
The bluntness should cool me.
It does not.
It makes me want him more because he is thinking past wanting me.
Marshall would have called that restraint noble in a toast, then found a way to work around it.
"I hate that you’re decent," I say.
"I’m not feeling decent."
My laugh comes out rough.
His eyes darken.
Neither of us moves.
Then Abel steps back and picks up his jacket.
"Read your father’s letter tonight," he says. "If you can."
"Is it bad?"
"It is him."
That is answer enough.
At home, Marshall is not there. He has texted that Sabine needed an emergency review before the executive committee call.
Don’t wait up. Please try to rest. Tomorrow will be easier if you let people help.
I save the message.
Then I pour a glass of wine I do not drink, sit at my kitchen island, and open my father’s envelope.
The paper is thick. His handwriting is impatient.
Honor,
If you're reading this, I was right about him. I am sorry for that, but I refuse to apologize for preparing.
I cover my mouth.
Listen to Abel. Argue with him when necessary. He respects a decent argument.
I laugh, and it breaks in the middle.
Do not let anyone turn grief into proof that you are weak. I trusted your mind before you trusted it yourself. I still do.
The kitchen blurs.
Win. Then make whoever tried to stop you get out of your way.
I read the last line three times.
Then I take out my notebook.
Dad knew.
Under it:
Tomorrow I end my marriage.