Chapter 2
"Westbrook Elementary, this is Diane."
"Hi, Diane. This is Calla Mercer. Sophie Mercer's mom. Second grade, Ms. Patterson's class."
"Oh, hi Calla! How can I help?"
"I need to verify the emergency contact information on Sophie's file. Can you pull that up?"
Keyboard clicking. "Sure thing. Let me just... okay. Sophie Mercer. Emergency contacts: primary is you, Calla Mercer. Secondary is James Mercer — dad. And third is..." More clicking. "Ruby Khoury. Listed as family friend. Authorized for pickup as well."
My thumb finds the planning app. Swipes. Green checkmarks scroll by. Caterer confirmed. AV confirmed. Florist delivery window confirmed.
"When was Ruby added?" I ask.
"Let me check the edit history... Looks like she was added in October. October fourteenth."
October fourteenth. I pull up my calendar. October fourteenth I was in Austin running the Hargrove Pharmaceuticals annual dinner. Three hundred and fifty people. A live band that showed up without their drummer.
"Who submitted the change?"
"It was done through the parent portal. Logged in under James Mercer's account."
"And pickup authorization — that's a separate form?"
"Yes, but it was submitted the same day. Also through Mr. Mercer's account. Ms. Khoury is authorized for early pickup, snow-day pickup, and emergency dismissal."
I write it down. Not in the app — on the back of a gala seating chart I have on the passenger seat. October 14. School. Pickup + emergency contact. James's portal.
"Is there anything else I can help with?" Diane asks.
"Actually — is there a way to see if Ruby has ever actually picked Sophie up?"
"Oh sure. We log all pickups. Let me look...
" Papers shuffling. Or maybe it's a mouse scrolling.
"Looks like Ms. Khoury has picked up Sophie...
six times since October. Three snow days in January, one early dismissal in November — I think that was the pipe burst day — and twice for ballet pickup when it conflicted with aftercare hours. "
Six times.
Six times my daughter left school with someone I didn't send.
"Thank you, Diane."
"Of course! Anything else?"
"No. That's everything."
I hang up. My coffee is still full. I don't touch it.
Six pickups. October through now — that's nine months. And not once did Sophie come home and say "Ruby picked me up today" in a way that made me think it was unusual. Because it wasn't unusual. Because Ruby picks her up from ballet anyway. Because Ruby is always around.
I open a new note on my phone. Title it: TIMELINE.
October 14 — School: emergency contact + pickup authorization (James submitted while I was in Austin)
One entry. One form. One small thing.
I think about the hospital. Primary emergency contact. Ruby Khoury.
[Date unknown] — St. Vincent's: primary emergency contact (James submitted after "ice incident" — verify date)
Two entries.
I think about what Ruby said yesterday at the hospital. "James put me down as backup. Months ago." Months ago could be anything. Could be two systems. Could be twenty.
My phone buzzes. Felix: Morning boss. Salmon situation resolved — switched to the arctic char, same price point. Also the AV team wants to know if we're doing the LED wall or the projection screen for the keynote. Your call.
I type back: LED wall. And Felix — can you handle the sound check walkthrough today? I need the morning.
Three dots. Then: You NEVER skip sound check. You ok?
Fine. Personal thing. I'll be in by noon.
Copy. Arctic char it is. LED wall it is. Sound check is mine. Don't forget the protein bar in your bag — you didn't eat yesterday either.
Felix notices things. It's why I hired him.
Twenty-eight years old, obsessively organized, builds spreadsheets the way other people build sandcastles — for the pure joy of structure.
He color-codes everything. He once created a seating chart algorithm that accounted for dietary restrictions, professional rivalries, and zodiac compatibility.
I told him the zodiac thing was unnecessary.
He said, "You've never sat a Scorpio next to a Leo at a product launch. Trust me."
He was right, by the way. The Scorpio and the Leo got into an argument about blockchain at the cocktail hour and we had to separate them by reassigning table cards. Felix sent me a screenshot of their zodiac compatibility rating afterward — 23% — with a single emoji: ??.
We've worked together for three years. He's the only person I've ever met who organizes his anxiety the same way I organize mine: into systems, timelines, and color-coded grids.
If something is tracked, it can be controlled.
If it's controlled, it can't hurt you. That's our shared religion. The church of the spreadsheet.
I put the phone down. Pick up the seating chart I scribbled on. Look at my two entries.
Where else?
James goes to the dentist. Dr. Khatri, on Elm Street.
He goes to the gym — Apex Fitness on Fourth.
He has a primary care doctor — Dr. Pham at Greenfield Medical.
His car is serviced at Brennan's Auto. He has a life insurance policy through his work.
A 401k. A pharmacy where he picks up his blood pressure medication every month.
Every single one of those places has a form. Every form has a line that says: IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, CONTACT.
I could call each one. Today. Right now. Verify.
But I don't have authorization to access his medical files. I'm not on his gym membership. I don't know which pharmacy he uses — is it the CVS on Main or the Walgreens on Route 9?
I don't know which pharmacy my husband uses.
I sit with that for a second. Then I open the planning app and swipe. Green. Green. Green. Everything on schedule. Everything confirmed. The gala will be flawless. Four hundred people will have the night of their quarter. The CFO will feel important. The salmon — arctic char — will be perfect.
And I don't know where my husband fills his prescriptions.
* * *
At 11:45 I'm in the office. Felix has the sound check handled — I can hear him on the phone with the AV team, his voice doing that thing where it gets slightly higher when he's being patient with someone who isn't understanding the difference between 5.1 and 7.1 surround.
"Hey," I say, dropping my bag at my desk. "Quick question."
He spins his chair. Headset around his neck. "Shoot."
"If you wanted to find out every place someone was listed as an emergency contact — for another person — how would you do it?"
Felix's eyebrows go up. Not dramatically. Just enough. "Define 'someone.'"
"A friend. Listed on another person's forms. Medical, school, gym, insurance. Everything."
He tilts his head. "Is this for an event?"
"No."
"Personal."
"Yes."
He rolls the chair closer. Lowers his voice even though we're alone in the office — our assistant Maya doesn't come in until one.
"Okay. So. You can't just call places and ask — HIPAA for medical, privacy policies for most others.
But. If the person whose file it is calls and asks?
They can get their own records. Emergency contact info is part of a patient's or member's file. "
"So James would have to ask."
"Unless you're on the accounts too. Joint gym membership? Joint insurance?"
"We have separate gym memberships. Insurance is through his work."
Felix drums his fingers on the desk. "School you can access — you're a parent.
Dentist — if you're both patients at the same practice, you might be able to ask about family file contacts.
But honestly?" He leans back. "The fastest way is to just ask him.
'Hey James, where's Ruby listed as your contact? '"
I picture it. James's face doing the same thing it did at the hospital. The blink. The scroll through memory. The "I don't think so."
"I don't want to ask him," I say.
Felix looks at me. Really looks. The way he looks at a run-of-show when something doesn't add up — not alarmed, just precise.
"Okay," he says. "Then we reverse-engineer it. What do you know already?"
"Hospital. School."
"That's two. What's your theory on total?"
I think about three years. James's life has maybe thirty contact points — places that keep his information, that would call someone if something went wrong. If Ruby's been added to two in nine months...
"I don't know yet," I say. "But I think it's more than two."
Felix nods. Pulls open a fresh spreadsheet. Names the file before I can even process what he's doing.
MERCER_CONTACT_AUDIT.xlsx
"Categories," he says, typing. "Medical. Dental. Pharmacy. Fitness. Insurance. Auto. Financial. School. Childcare. Miscellaneous." He looks up. "We'll go through each one. Find what you can access directly, flag what needs James, and see how many Ruby-shaped holes are in your life."
Ruby-shaped holes.
I think about Saturday's gala. Four hundred people. Two hundred and sixteen confirmed dietary restrictions. Forty-seven vendor contracts. One backup generator in case of power failure. Every contingency mapped.
And in my own life — in the file that is my marriage, my family, my daughter — someone has been editing the spreadsheet without telling me. Adding lines. Changing contacts. Inserting themselves into the backup plan until they ARE the backup plan.
My phone buzzes. Ruby: Hey! Sophie told me about her art project — the self-portrait with the macaroni? ?? She showed me at ballet pickup on Tuesday. Adorable. Didn't want you to worry about the traffic thing btw — I grabbed her because James said you had late setup for the gala.
I read it twice.
Ruby picked up Sophie from ballet on Tuesday. Traffic was bad. James told her to. Didn't want me to worry.
I wasn't worried. Because I didn't know.
I add to the note on my phone:
Tuesday (this week) — Ruby picked up Sophie from ballet. James coordinated. I was not informed.
Then, below the timeline:
Question: How many times has Ruby picked up/dropped off/been present for Sophie without my knowledge or request?
Felix is still typing categories into his spreadsheet. His fingers are fast. Accurate. He builds systems the way I do — with the faith that if you track everything, nothing can surprise you.
But something did surprise me. Something has been happening for months — maybe years — in the background of my perfectly planned life. And I missed it because it looked like help. It looked like friendship. It looked like Ruby being Ruby — generous, available, dependable.
It looked like a contingency plan I didn't remember making.
I text Ruby back: Ha! Love the macaroni portrait. Thanks for grabbing her. ??
Friendly. Normal. Grateful.
The way I've been responding for three years.