Chapter 6
FOR THE NEXT EIGHT MINUTES on the phone, I don’t get anything more out of Erika. I assure her she isn’t trapped. She always has options. I offer to call her dad or a couple different friends who are teachers at the school to connect with her. She declines all offers.
In an effort to distract her, I recount Dave’s air of superiority, including the pitch of his sharp nose when his videos were insulted.
Last week, Erika interviewed a few members of his sales team for a class project.
On the train ride home, she declared his videos boldly primitive, which at the time made me laugh.
This time she gives me a couple gratifying snorts.
I refrain from telling her about the small oval bruises likely blooming on my arm as we speak.
She finally stops crying and agrees to do school from home. The plan to leave seems to regulate her shallow breathing. I get a momentary twinge. This is remote micromanaging. Did Clint already tell her she had to stay at school? I’ll have to call him next.
“Love you, sweet girl.”
“When are you coming home?” That’s the longest string of words she’s pulled together over this entire call.
“End of the week.” I cringe. “Unless you need me.” As I say the words, I utter a silent plea she won’t ask.
As convenient as being in the city is this week, my extended stay is all about Clint’s desire for space.
As things were unraveling on Sunday, while packing the truck, I’d agreed to take up residence at the hotel until Friday—and then instantly regretted it.
But I also don’t have the standing to overturn my promise.
After telling my daughter goodbye, I call Clint.
“Erika’s pretty upset. She called me a few times. I told her she could do school from home.” I slam out the words and then brace for his rebuttal.
“Fine. I’m here, planning the lumber delivery for that kitchen remodel.”
What kitchen remodel? I thought he was screening in that massive deck over in Greenville.
His voice softens. “You looked good, by the way.”
A tear that pooled while on the phone with Erika streams down my cheek. He hasn’t complimented me in weeks. Maybe longer. “Thanks. It’s been a crazy day, and I’m actually supposed to be at the reception for—”
“Go. I’m not keeping you.” His tone hardens.
“I didn’t mean—”
The line goes dead, and I pinch the bridge of my nose, hard.
Opening the door, I resist the urge to sag against the jamb.
Our relationship, our marriage, has never been like this.
We met by accident. I first saw Clint’s hazel eyes peering out from under the brim of his ball cap, emblazoned with the Maine Warden Service logo.
I couldn’t look away. He was asking me details about my life and my family while holding my wet, frozen foot between his warm hands.
Up until recently, his touch has chased away the chill, not invited it.
“Excuse me. Meredith Hansel?” A young man steps in front of me as I reach the doors to the reception. “Something was delivered for you.”
I scowl at the squat, thin envelope he shoves toward me. My hands remain at my sides.
“Don’t worry. We have everything scanned coming into the building.”
I wince as I take the envelope. I wasn’t worried it was something that could harm me until he mentioned scanners.
My only thought had been event logistics.
I don’t want to bother with any administration right now.
I turn the manila envelope over. Only my name on the front.
No other indicators. We all got our commemorative silver coins before the bell ringing, and a few others and I had gotten Lucite plaques back at the office.
“Thanks.” I glance toward the elevators, but Phil is probably missing me. Similar to every CEO I’ve ever met, he gets edgy when left unattended too long. Instead of heading downstairs to the manned coat closet to store the envelope, I walk back into the room, straight to Phil.
“There she is.” Only a moderate amount of annoyance tinges his words. “Meredith, can I introduce you to the head of research at UBS?”
I shake hands and greet the next dozen people as the envelope grows warm in my left hand. At one point I actually feel the package with my other fingers to ensure it isn’t heating up.
I finally excuse myself for the restroom, my curiosity eating away my desire to be the perfect hostess.
I rip open the seal and pull out a handwritten note.
A chill runs up my spine. I know this loopy writing. I quickly glance under each of the stall doors. No feet, but it’s like I can feel Betsey’s presence in the white granite room with me. I secure myself behind the last door and think of Erika locked away and feeling trapped.
I stare down at the single sheet of paper.
On the drive is the data. Verify it.
No innuendo. Only facts.
I scrubbed the names, but the rest is as I found it. I recommend you keep this to yourself, as what you hold will threaten others. But I’ve lost my voice with you, so I at least encourage you to be careful with whom you trust.
I hope you agree this has all gotten a bit ridiculous, but based on the stakes, we probably shouldn’t be surprised.
I will always cherish our meetings at the Rotterdam Room.
The confidences we shared over sips of oaky Chardonnays for you and two olive martinis for me—the stories are like snapshots in my mind.
You can continue to trust me to keep your confidences.
I’m “calling safety.” Lending you research. After all, success is the result of the right steps taken day after day.
You have until Friday. I’ll be in touch.
The page quivers in my shaking hand. I read it three times before shoving the note back into the envelope.
Betsey and I’ve never been to the Rotterdam Room.
But Lucas and I have.