Now I understood the exhaustion in his eyes.
Not all of it.
But some.
“You could have just told me that on the plane.”
“I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because asking a stranger to pretend to sleep on my shoulder was already strange enough.”
I smiled.
“That’s true.”
He moved toward the door.
“I should let you rest.”
“Adrian?”
He turned.
“Thank you.”
“You booked the hotel.”
“For not making me feel ridiculous.”
His expression softened.
“You’re not ridiculous, Elena.”
The certainty in his voice unsettled me in ways I wasn’t prepared to examine.
He opened the door.
Then paused.
“Don’t answer Ethan tonight unless you want to.”
“I won’t.”
“And call your attorney tomorrow.”
“I will.”
He nodded.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The door closed.
I locked it.
Then locked the security latch.
Then checked both twice.
Old habits.
I changed Lily into pajamas without waking her.
I washed my face.
I stood beneath the shower until the water turned lukewarm.
Then, wearing an oversized T-shirt, I climbed into bed and stared at the ceiling.
My body was exhausted.
My mind refused to stop.
At 11:47 p.m., my phone buzzed.
Ethan.
I ignored it.
A minute later, another message appeared.
I know you don’t trust me. You have every reason not to. But please don’t involve Prescott.
I stared at the words.
That was new.
Ethan rarely admitted fault.
Never directly.
I typed:
Why were you calling the airport?
My thumb hovered.
Then I deleted it.
Another message came.
This is bigger than our divorce.
I sat up.
A moment later:
Check your email. Search “Northbridge.”
I frowned.
Northbridge?
I had never heard the word.
I opened my email account.
There were 18,000 messages because apparently deleting promotional emails had been another responsibility I abandoned during motherhood.
I typed NORTHBRIDGE into the search bar.
Three results appeared.
All old.
The first dated eighteen months earlier.
The sender was Ethan.
Subject line:
Northbridge documents
I opened it.
The body contained only one sentence.
Please print these before Friday.
There was an attachment.
A PDF.
I vaguely remembered it.
Ethan sometimes sent documents home when his office printer was being serviced. I had probably printed them and left them on his desk without reading them.
I opened the attachment.
Corporate pages.
Legal language.
Names I didn’t recognize.
I scrolled.
Northbridge Medical Logistics LLC.
