"We'll discuss fees before you authorize any work. Right now I want you to take one practical step. Go somewhere you can sleep tonight without having to explain yourself to the person you're afraid of disappointing. We'll deal with the next problem after that."
I looked at the airport wall, at a framed poster advertising a tropical beach. For the first time since Ryan boarded, I allowed myself to think not only about the facts but about the evening ahead. Our house was full of his clothes, his documents, his expensive tools, and years of shared possessions. It was also full of patterns I had mistaken for normal married life. I did not want to return there until I knew whether I would be safe from his demands.
"I'll stay with my mother," I said.
"Good. Have someone you trust with you when you collect anything essential from the house. And keep copies of communications you receive. Don't respond in anger; you may need those messages later."
The call ended. I stood in the hallway holding my phone as travelers moved past the distant windows. People were leaving for vacations, conferences, funerals, family reunions, and the small private reasons that make airports necessary. My own trip had ended before takeoff, but in a strange way I had finally arrived somewhere I had been trying not to go for months.
When Ashley emerged from her interview, she looked exhausted. Her once immaculate red dress was creased beneath her jacket, and she carried her handbag as though it were heavier than before. She stopped a few feet away from me, uncertain whether I would want her near. I could see that she had been crying, though she had repaired her makeup with the determination of someone who was accustomed to appearing composed in public.
"Did they ask you about the paperwork?" I said.
She nodded. "I gave them the folder. They asked me to explain what I knew and what I didn't. I showed them the messages Ryan sent me."
"You didn't have to tell me that."
"I know. I wanted you to know I didn't hide it."
I studied her face. The woman in front of me was not innocent of every choice that had brought us to this hallway. She had been in a relationship with a married man, whether or not she believed his account of the divorce, and there were things she could have asked more carefully. But she had also carried documents that put my family's property at risk, and I wanted the truth more than I wanted the brief satisfaction of making her feel small.
"How long have you been with him?" I asked.
"Almost eleven months."
The answer landed with a quiet brutality. I remembered the weekend of my mother's birthday, when Ryan had canceled dinner at the last minute because he said a jobsite emergency required his presence. I remembered the expensive scarf he brought home afterward, supposedly a gift he had purchased while waiting for a client. I had accepted it with gratitude because I wanted to believe being remembered was the same thing as being loved.