James stood for another moment, studying Clare with an expression I could not mistake. He asked whether the money had already transferred. She did not answer. He looked at his phone, at the envelope, and finally at the side exit near the service corridor. Then he said something about needing to call his lawyer and walked away without touching her or promising to return. He didn't even say goodbye.
Clare stared after him. Then she turned toward me, and for a moment I thought she might scream. I was prepared for accusations, for a claim that I'd arranged everything to humiliate her, for the anger of somebody who needs a person nearby to blame. Instead her face crumpled in a way I'd never seen before. "You knew," she whispered.
"I tried to tell you," I said. "You blocked my number."
I waited, hoping she might ask what I knew or how Rachel had found me. But she only looked toward the door through which James had disappeared, her whole body suddenly uncertain about where it belonged. I could not comfort her without becoming part of the confusion again. I stepped around her, crossed the lobby, and went out into the rain. This time I didn't look back.
I made it three blocks before I realized I was walking in the wrong direction from the parking garage. Rain had soaked through the shoulders of my jacket, and my shoes were slipping slightly on the sidewalk. I stopped under the awning of a closed shop and leaned against the brick wall, breathing hard as though I'd been running. I had imagined confronting James many times since Clare left. None of those imagined scenes included a six-year-old girl asking her father why he wasn't going home.
My phone rang. It was Dana, who had watched some of the commotion from the edge of the lobby after coming downstairs. She asked whether I was safe and whether I'd made it to my truck. I told her I was fine, then admitted I wasn't sure what fine meant anymore. She said the paperwork remained on track and that she would communicate with Clare's attorney about the settlement, nothing more. She also told me not to try to interpret the legal documents served on James or get involved in Rachel's case without a proper reason.
"You did what you came to do," she said. "Go home. Let the other adults handle their own consequences."
I found my truck, turned on the heater, and sat until the windshield cleared. For months, perhaps years, I had used driving time to plan jobs, check schedules, calculate materials, and think ahead. That morning I drove home with the radio off. My mind kept returning to the instant James