On the third morning, Daniel called.
“Claire, come back. Something terrible has happened!”
I sat beside the hotel window. “What happened?”
“Mom collapsed.”
My stomach tightened. “Is she in the hospital?”
“No. Paramedics checked her. Her blood pressure spiked because she took her medication twice.”
“The organizer is labeled by day and time.”
“If you’d been here—”
“No.”
Silence.
Then he snapped, “Some lawyer emailed me saying I have fourteen days to respond about debts to you. What the hell is that?”
“That is what happens when you confuse a wife with a servant and an investor with a wallet.”
His voice softened. “Come home and we’ll fix this.”
I looked at the red folder beside me.
Inside were the deed, loan agreements, expense reports, and photographs Daniel had accidentally synced to our shared cloud account—Daniel and Vanessa kissing on a company retreat he had told me spouses were forbidden to attend.
