Chapter Eight #2
The threat was real. Helen confirmed it before two. The writer had copied language from Callum's press statement. Strong women deserve strong lessons.
I sat at my new kitchen table and trembled.
Wanting security did not mean Beatrice got to design it. That sounded clear in Helen's office. It felt less clear with my address on a stranger's screen.
Helen gave me three firms with no Wycliffe contracts. I interviewed all of them and selected a woman-owned company that used plainclothes staff, disclosed location logs to me alone, and allowed cancellation at any time. I paid the first month from my own account.
At four, a letter arrived through counsel from Callum.
I did not authorize or know about my mother's action.
I have removed family-office visibility into the reimbursement account and directed the bank to send all future payments through counsel without recipient details.
The cost of your independent security is reimbursable if you choose. I will not request the provider's name.
There was no apology large enough to demand a reply. No sentence about missing me.
I read it three times anyway.
The locksmith arrived at seven. Her name was June, and she asked whether anyone held an order restricting access.
“No court order. A separation agreement.”
“Does the landlord approve the cylinder change?”
I showed her the signed permission.
She inspected the door and explained the existing lock could be opened with a key stamped DO NOT COPY because the building's keyway was common. I chose a restricted cylinder registered only to me. Two keys. No digital app. No remote administrator.
“Who gets the second?” she asked.
My instinct said Seraphine. Then I considered what happened if she lost it or Lachlan's staff recorded it.
“A sealed envelope with Helen's firm,” I said.
June fitted the lock while I watched. Metal filings fell onto a cloth. When she finished, she handed me both keys and made me test them.
The deadbolt turned with a solid click.
That night, I checked it three times. On the fourth, I stopped with my hand on the knob and asked what new information another turn would provide.
None.
I went to bed without checking again. Fear remained in the hallway and did not open the door.
Then I filed it with the lease and called the locksmith.
The first week in the apartment taught me how many household systems had once reported upward. At the marital home, groceries appeared through an account that tracked preferences. Repairs went through an app visible to the family office. Building staff logged guests and copied security.
In the new place, I bought a paper calendar and wrote appointments by hand. I chose a grocery delivery service, read its privacy settings, and decided to shop in person instead. The choices consumed time. Independence was not automatically efficient.
On Wednesday, the radiator stopped heating. I called the landlord, waited four hours, and wore two sweaters. My fingers hovered over Callum's old assistant, who could have sent someone in twenty minutes.
I called the landlord again.
The repairman arrived after dark. Imani stayed in the hall while he worked. He bled the radiator and explained the valve. I wrote the steps in my household notebook.
“Your husband never showed you?” he asked, seeing the ring mark.
“My husband did not maintain radiators.”
“Smart man.”
I laughed despite the simplification.
The apartment warmed slowly. I ate soup in both sweaters and emailed the repair receipt to the landlord, not to Callum's reimbursement trust. Some costs belonged to ordinary tenancy, not marital harm.
At bedtime, I checked the new lock once. Then I put the notebook in the kitchen drawer and left the radiator instructions there for the future version of me who might forget.
No institution learned the temperature of my room.
Verity visited on Saturday with Dorian and Elowen. I gave the building manager their names myself. No assistant sent a list; no security office copied the arrival time to anyone.
Elowen inspected every cabinet below her shoulders. She found a saucepan, two wooden spoons, and the emergency torch.
“You need toys,” she announced.
“I did not know you were moving in.”
“Only today.”
Dorian carried a toolbox. I blocked the doorway with one arm.
“What is that?”
“Your shelves lean.”
“Did I ask you to fix them?”
He looked offended, then glanced at Verity. “No.”
“You can show me what is wrong.”
We examined the brackets together. One screw had missed the wall plug. I decided to call the landlord rather than let Lachlan repair leased property.
“You are enjoying this,” he said.
“A little.”
Verity placed flowers in a drinking glass. “She practiced on me.”
We ate sandwiches on the floor because I owned only two chairs. Elowen asked where Uncle Callum was.
The adults froze.
“He lives somewhere else right now,” I said.
“Because he was bad?”
“Because he hurt me and I need my own home.”
“Did he say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
Verity began to intervene. I shook my head.
“Sorry does not always make a hurt stop,” I said. “He knows that.”
Elowen considered this with the solemnity of a judge, then asked for crisps.
After lunch, Verity and I stood by the window while Dorian taught Elowen to stack cartons.
“You did not promise a reunion,” she said.
“I did not promise there wouldn't be one.”
“That frightened you.”
“Yes.”
She touched the ring mark on my hand, not the hand itself. “People asked me for certainty when I left. I had none. I only knew where I could not sleep that night.”
The apartment felt warmer than it had before they arrived. That was partly the repaired radiator and partly family who had entered on terms I chose.
When they left, Elowen forgot one red sock beneath the table. I photographed it and sent the image to Verity, not to a household manager.
Keep it, she replied. Your apartment has its first toy.
I put the sock in the kitchen drawer beside the radiator instructions.