3. ABRAHAM
AbrAHAM
“Huffmann and Associates,” a male voice answered.
“This is Lawton. Forward me to Erik.”
“Hold one moment, please.”
Missing my exit for home, taking a detour instead, I waited thirty seconds before Erik Huffman, a former Marine turned PI picked up the phone. “I take it you’ve opened the file.”
“You get names?”
“You didn’t ask for names. You asked for evidence. It’s all there.”
“How many and how long?”
“Brother, trust me when I tell you every one of you who calls me thinking they want the juicy details is a fucking liar, you just don’t know it, yet. You want my advice?” I didn’t and I wasn’t his brother. “…hand that shit over to your lawyer and wipe your hands. It ain’t worth it.”
“Copy that.”
Hanging up the call, pulling into the marina’s parking lot, I grabbed the envelope I’d stashed in the center console and double checked the information to see where I was headed.
I hadn’t planned on coming here straight from The Citadel hotel, but I’d been uncharacteristically distracted since my mother’s call and I’d found myself charted for the last place I’d been with my wife before… before.
The briny air of the Chesapeake mixed with the clear skies of summer meant several families were taking advantage of the weather. A few nodded in acknowledgement, but unsurprisingly, parents quickly pushed their children along, avoiding eye contact.
I followed the map to my slip number, looking for the boat until eventually, the Ma Maison came into view.
I swore.
Fifty feet in length, outfitted with three cabins, the cruiser—which was definitely not the pre-owned fishing boat we’d agreed on when Nineah had asked to purchase me a small gift—bobbed in the sparkling water.
A brief wave of grief and regret hit and I let it.
As far as presents went, this was more than anything I’d ever circled in a magazine, let alone actually believed I would own.
It was almost a shame I wasn’t planning on keeping it.
I hopped over the stern, the Ma Maison bouncing with weight on her and took the stairs to the main cabin. Then entering the code that came in the envelope, I unlocked the entrance and ducked under the doorway.
I scanned the living area and took in what I hadn’t that night.
The fully stocked bar that sat behind a gleaming bar top and leather stools.
The seventy-inch flat screen that hung over the collection of liquor bottles that’d been stored by brand, then height and shape.
The shelves of crystal glassware… Spacious, minimalist, expensive, it was designed for organization and functionality.
Almost entirely like my home office had been, I realized.
I noted four propped doors to the bed and bathrooms, a small kitchen, two storage units, a wall safe, and a gun locker. I went to the latter, using the same code I’d used on the door and inside, found a Walther PDP and a Sig P226. Both holstered, with extra mags and boxes of ammo.
I’d removed the Sig from the holster and was inspecting the weapon when my personal burner buzzed in my pocket.
Since I’d told my parents about hiring the divorce lawyer, all it ever did these days was ring to the tune of nosy family and Vanessa, my attorney, but I hadn’t turned it off in case there was an update from work.
For a month, I’d been placed on mandatory leave by Matthias to get my affairs in order, but that had come and gone, and in an election year, it was all hands on deck.
I pulled out my phone, prepared to send the caller to voicemail, but the ringing stopped and a text message came through. It was from Nineah, asking me to pick up.
I knew why she was calling.
Over the last six or so months, I’d tracked her from Bangkok to Kyoto to Seoul, then eventually Baltimore where she’d sneakily rented a single story home she kept locked up like a retrofitted bomb bunker.
What I hadn’t known was why she’d bothered to return stateside at all. That is, until I’d gotten the papers.
Knowing the consequences of answering, both with my lawyer and to my mental, I deleted the notification and went to my contacts instead. Scrolling down to Vanessa’s, my divorce attorney, I hit the call tab.
FX is expanding. The new office in Seattle will need help with the transition. No one would blame me for transferring…
I waited six rings before she finally picked up.
“Mr. Lawton, I was just about to call you.”
Stowing the weapon, I locked up the safe.
The floor bobbing under my footing, I stepped into the closest bedroom and closed the door behind me.
Just then, several hundred memories of my marriage involuntarily flashed by like the flickering scenes of old film tape.
Her firsts. My firsts. Sweat. Skin. Smiles. Her laugh. That cloying positivity…
If someone had told me two years ago that I’d find myself in the middle of divorce proceedings, I’d have fucked them up on sight.
“I’ve been in contact with Erik,” I said. “He has what you need.”
“Photography, video, and audio?”
“Not sure. Haven’t looked at it.”
I didn’t tell her that was because there wasn’t a single file in his Dropbox I didn’t already have.
Though Vanessa had warned me against any contact with my wife, including tracking her activity, I’d stopped pretending I gave a shit about legalities the second she’d moved out of our home and served me papers without so much as a conversation.
Vanessa didn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll need to be aware of the minor details so you’re not blindsided if or when everything comes out in court, but you don’t actually have to look at the evidence.
“And you think this is the right move?” I asked, playing her game. “A lawsuit for breaking her own infidelity clause?”
There was a slight pause. Then, “I suppose that depends on you. She seems willing to negotiate and if you’re asking my professional opinion, well…
there are no winners in divorce. A lot of people justify making enemies of their spouse, when more often than not, what they really wanted all along was to feel less alone in their pain.
However, as someone who’s been where you are, trust me when I say, if you’re dragging this out, thinking you can stall your wife or exhaust her, or if you’re simply just fighting for more excuses to be in contact with her, you may be avoiding a very disconcerting truth, Mr. Lawton. ”
“Which is?”
“Just because she may have filed the papers, doesn’t mean she single-handedly ended your marriage.”