After My Husband Tried to Steal My Settlement Money

Macie let herself in on Sunday morning without knocking. I heard the front door, then her heels on the hardwood, and by the time I turned from the stove she was already pulling out a chair at my kitchen table like she'd reserved it.

"Don't mind me," she said, though I hadn't offered a word. "I was in the neighborhood."

She lived twenty minutes away. There was no version of Sunday that put her "in the neighborhood."

I set a plate of eggs in front of her because it was easier than arguing, and because the woman I was pretending to be would have done exactly that. She picked up her fork, examined the eggs like they'd personally disappointed her, and started eating anyway.

"Brantley tells me you're taking care of the ring situation," she said.

"I am."

"Good." She chewed, swallowed, set the fork down with a small click. "Because I want to say something to you, Skylar, and I want you to hear it as it's meant. Kindly."

I folded my hands on the table and waited. I already knew this wouldn't be kind.

"My son has been more than patient with your condition," she said. "Six years, and not so much as a nursery. You know how that reflects on a man, don't you? People ask. I have to say something."

"What do you tell them?"

"That we're hopeful." She smiled, thin and satisfied, like the lie tasted good. "But hope only stretches so far, dear. A man has needs. A family has needs. If you can't give him what he needs, you can at least not stand in the way of what he's built to make up for it."

I thought about the boy on the beach towel. My son, in Brantley's handwriting.

"What is it you think he's built?" I asked, keeping my voice light, curious, harmless.

Macie waved a hand like the question bored her. "A future. Something solid. And instead of thanking your lucky stars he's stayed, you're making him beg for money that's rightfully owed for damage you caused."

"I didn't damage anything."

"That's not what Sasha says." She picked her fork back up. "You should be grateful he hasn't already walked. I would have, in his position."

I nodded slowly, the way I nod at people I no longer plan to see much of. "I understand."

"Good girl." She finished her eggs, patted my hand on her way out like she'd done me a great service, and left without saying goodbye.

I stood at the sink washing her plate for a long time after her car pulled away. Then I dried my hands, sat down at the table, and opened my notebook. I wrote it all down—condition, needs, built, walked—in handwriting so small only I could read it. Evidence didn't have to be a screenshot. Sometimes it was just memory, pinned to paper before it could soften.

Sasha came two days later, carrying a box of tissues like a prop she hadn't quite learned to hide.

"Can we talk?" she asked at my door. "Woman to woman?"

I made tea. She sat across from me with her hands wrapped around the mug like she needed the warmth, though it was seventy degrees outside.

"I know this is hard for you," she said. "I don't want you to think I'm enjoying any part of this."

"I don't think that," I said, and watched her decide whether to believe me.

"It's just—" Her voice caught, right on cue. "That ring was the last thing Marcus gave me before the accident. I know it's just an object. But it's the only piece of him I have left."

Marcus. Last month at the courtyard welcome party, she'd told a different neighbor his name was David. I kept my face still and reached for my own mug.

"I understand loss," I said, which wasn't a lie, though not for the reason she thought.

"Could you maybe expedite it?" she asked, eyes wet, voice small. "I hate to ask. I just—rent, and everything. It's been a hard year."

"I'll see what I can do," I said. "Friday."

She reached across the table and squeezed my hand, and I let her, and I thought about how many times she must have practiced this exact gesture in a mirror.

After she left, I sat with my tea going cold and wrote down every word, every name, every inconsistency, while it was still fresh enough to hurt.

Diana found me on the porch that evening, my knees pulled up, staring at nothing.

"You've been too calm," she said, handing me a coffee I hadn't asked for. "Ever since the courtyard thing. It's not normal calm."

"I'm handling it."

"I saw the Facebook post," Diana said. "I didn't comment. I never bought her whole widow routine, for what it's worth. Something about the way she tells it changes every time."

I looked at her for a long moment. "If I needed someone to remember what they saw—exactly what they saw, nothing more—would you be willing?"

Diana didn't ask what I meant. She just nodded. "Whatever you need, Skylar. I'll keep my mouth shut until you tell me not to."

"Thank you," I said, and for the first time in days, something in my chest loosened, just slightly.

Friday was one day away.