"People get frightened and start cleaning up," she explained. "Cleaning up is often what creates a second problem. We want a complete record of what happened, including what you misunderstood and what you did knowingly."
I told her I would cooperate. She asked whether I'd spoken to Ethan since the rooftop, and I shook my head. A part of me wanted her to explain how to make him understand that I had been fooled. Instead she said, "Your husband's counsel is entitled to hear a factual account of the business matter. His feelings about the marriage are his own. Don't confuse cooperation with a bargain for forgiveness."
We spent the afternoon examining documents. I recognized my initials on the consulting authorization and the scanned signature I had sent Ryan's assistant. The main agreement permitted market research and required us to approve any new vendor before payments could be made. Attached to it, in a separate electronic packet, was a later amendment I did not remember signing. Its language seemed to expand the authority to submit preliminary service requests, a power that sounded harmless until Priya pointed out how it might be used.
The signature was mine, but the date and the document sequence needed checking. I couldn't honestly swear I had never seen it, because at that point I no longer trusted my memory of how carelessly I'd moved through those weeks. I could say that I had never intended Ryan to redirect funds or represent that Ethan had agreed to a sale. Priya made a note and told me that intention mattered but that we would also need to know what I had represented in writing.
As I left her office, Caroline called to ask whether I wanted to come to Franklin for dinner. I told her I wasn't ready to be around her daughters, who would ask innocent questions about Ethan. She said that was all right, and then she asked whether I'd call our mother. I hadn't told her anything because the thought of hearing disappointment in her voice made me feel twelve years old.
"Mom will love you," Caroline said. "She's not required to like what you've done. Those are different things."
I drove past the turn toward our house and kept going until I reached the parking lot of a grocery store where Ethan and I had shopped every Sunday for years. The store was busy with people carrying bags of vegetables, paper towels, and flowers. A young couple argued over which pasta sauce to buy, then laughed and took both jars. I sat behind the wheel wondering how many small, unremarkable moments I had thrown away because I was hungry for something more impressive.
When I finally went inside, the first thing I saw was a stack of the coffee Ethan liked. I picked up a bag without thinking, carried it halfway through the store, and set it back down. Buying it wouldn't bring him home. For the first time in months I let a small desire remain unfulfilled instead of inventing an argument for why it deserved immediate satisfaction.