Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
VIOLET
B y Monday morning at work, my date was practically forgotten. I’d received the predicted Sunday morning calls from the girls. They’d asked different questions than Chase. Did he seem like a solid guy who had his shit together? Did he do anything that was a deal breaker? Was he a good kisser? Did Rodney have a big rod?
“Yes,” “no,” “I don’t know,” and “it’s way too early to think about that” had been my answers. Knowing Rodney had gone out of town was a relief. It meant I wouldn’t have to navigate whatever came next—no worrying about what further contact meant, and when and whether he would really call.
All the better for me to focus , I thought as I put down my bag and sat at my desk chair. I’d posted a job description for a special events manager. I didn’t want to hire an “events assistant” or an “events associate.” I wanted the title to signal that this role was high level. As I’d written in the job description, I wanted a unicorn—someone who would take to the role like I had and really fly.
I settled in with my coffee, closing all extraneous windows on my computer, wanting to dig into my task. Then, I silenced the phone on my desk. Taking calls was part of the job, but I didn’t want to be distracted. The person I brought in to take over after I left the farm had to be right.
I wasn’t halfway through reading my first résumé when my cell phone rang. I always kept it on in case something was happening with my kids. I thought to send it to voicemail if it turned out to be anyone other than the day care or the elementary school, but I picked up when I read the caller ID.
“Hey, Katrina,” I greeted my attorney with more cheer than I felt. Talking to her always put me on edge, not because she was intimidating—because every phone call from her held the potential to give me hope, or to destroy it, or to take me back to a time when the pain was fresh.
“I’m getting ready for the court date.” My brightness took effort to manufacture. “We’re still on for that, right?”
I pushed away my coffee, suddenly too jumpy for more caffeine.
“That’s why I’m calling. The retrial doesn’t have to happen if you don’t want it to. DCH just made an offer. Half a million dollars to settle the suit.”
Half a million dollars. I repeated the number to myself.
“As in, US dollars?” I said out loud.
“Yes. They want to give you a lump sum.”
But I didn’t understand. “That’s 100,000 dollars over what the policy was supposed to pay out.”
“They’re offering extra for pain and suffering, and to offset legal fees.” Katrina’s voice was always sober. I’d concluded that aspect of her manner was part of what made her a great attorney. Her lack of emotion didn’t make her seem cold—it made her seem like a straight shooter. She gave off the vibe of a person who simply told the truth.
As the news began to set in, confused tears sprang to my eyes.
“After all they put me through…” The first words I was able to speak came out in a whisper. “After four years, dragging me through the mud and fighting me tooth and nail, they suddenly decide to make me an offer? Why?”
A slight creaking sound in the background told me Katrina was reclining in her desk chair. It was a habit I’d noticed when meeting with her at her office.
“The lead attorney on the case says the insurance company has a new general counsel. Given how many lawsuits insurance companies are party to, the general counsel is nearly as important as the CEO. They’re saying they want to settle because the new GC likes to deal with cases like yours in a different way.”
“So the insurance company had a change of heart?”
“Insurance companies don’t have hearts,” she came back bluntly. “They want us to believe the new GC prefers settling more lawsuits and scaling back on the number of cases that go to court.”
“But that’s not what you think.”
Her chair creaked again. “The math doesn’t make much sense. Why call it off on the eve of the trial, especially if the resources they put toward building a case are already a sunk cost? And offering more than a client is asking as part of a settlement? That’s unheard of for an insurance company. I think something else is going on.”
“Something else?” I parroted back, still fighting to achieve articulation. “What do you think they’re playing at?”
“I think if they’re offering above your ask, they think your case is worth more than the face value of the policy.”
I shook my head, incredulous, now robbed fully of the power of speech. What card in the world could they think we had that we hadn’t already played? This was an appeal. We’d already revealed our arguments in the earlier proceedings. Our best hope was to win with a different—and more sympathetic—judge.
“It’s just speculation, but here’s what might be going on,” she continued when I didn’t answer. “They think we’ve got new evidence—something that would cause the judge to determine you’re entitled to more, possibly a lot more than half a million dollars. They’re offering that amount now, hoping it will sound like so much money to you that you sign without asking questions.”
“Half a million dollars is a lot of money to me.” I found my voice again. “I could pay off my house and my car. I could put money away for the kids to go to college. If I have no mortgage to pay, I can work less and spend more time with my kids. Half a million dollars is a lot for most people, especially a single parent.”
No, you’re a widowed parent. And there’s a difference , a voice inside me said. It was true. Raising children on your own was difficult, no matter the circumstances. But raising children on your own when their dad was never, ever coming back…now that was next-level. Most days, I felt like I was failing—tired from trying to juggle so much and stretched too thin to be there like I wanted to for Bri and Trey.
“What do you think I should do?” I finally asked.
“Obviously, it’s your choice. But my advice is, we don’t do anything yet. Let me investigate whether they’re telling the truth about the new general counsel. And let me try to figure out what new claim they might think we have. It could be anything—even a technicality of some law that’s changed.
“It’s my job to keep you informed of things like these, and that’s why I’m calling you now. But it’s also my job to protect your interests. My professional opinion is, there’s more than meets the eye. Let me start fresh with a different investigator—see if I can turn up new information about the case.”
I wasn’t surprised when I woke up at 4 a.m. the next morning in the middle of a panic attack, my heart pounding and in a cold sweat after being jarred from a dead sleep. Anxiety about the case liked to mess with my head. Not just stress about the outcome—but the heavy dose of heartbreak it dredged up.
They’d started out as nightmares back when I was getting up with Trey, back at a time when he nursed in the middle of the night. I’d been drowning under the weight of taking care of a newborn and a toddler. I had a legal battle ahead of me. My hormones weren’t right and, on top of it all, I was grieving.
What I’d needed more than anything at that time in my life was sleep. There were times I was so tired, I fell asleep standing up— times when I was afraid to sleep with Trey next to me for fear I might roll over on him.
What sleep I had gotten hadn’t been peaceful. It felt like every time I closed my eyes, I would imagine Todd in that burning forest. The worst were the funeral dreams—the ones where I went to the front of the church and saw him in his casket. For his real funeral, we’d had to keep it closed.
Two years later, the nightmares had stopped, but the terror itself hadn’t. Instead, I would wake up with panic attacks in the middle of the night. It was like waking up from a nightmare without remembering the nightmare itself—knowing something terrible was haunting me all the same.
It had been a solid year since the panic attacks had subsided. It had taken therapy, some supplements, and a formal sleep plan. Returning to a healthy state of sleep had been hard-earned. A middle-of-the-night panic attack was now a sobering reminder of how precarious my sense of peace was.
I can’t go back to this.
I thought it as I stood in my kitchen setting my kettle to boil. After breathing through the aftermath of my rude awakening, I’d ventured downstairs. The tea that helped you fall asleep was in the back of my cupboard and I’d had to turn on the light to dig.
I can’t go back to this. I can’t do this for another minute.
Intrusive thoughts wouldn’t stop running through my head, thoughts that made me want to take the money and walk away. But the part of me that just wanted it to be over—that wanted to close that chapter of my life—felt like giving up was the same as dishonoring Todd.
That wasn’t all that had me rattled. Earlier, I’d told Chase. I’d tracked him down on the farm—actively sought him out for advice. But, when I’d told him about it, he’d looked strangely pissed off about the whole thing. Chase usually had a way of talking me through every side of an issue. But he’d hardly said anything at all.
All of it had thrown me. Confusion on top of confusion. The kids had picked up on it, too. Five minutes after I’d gotten her from school, Bri had asked what was wrong. I didn’t know anything but for the fact that climbing back onto an emotional roller coaster wasn’t an option. I could not afford to go off the rails.