“I thought so too. Then an envelope arrived at my house.”
“What envelope?”
Emily glanced at the drawer of the side table.
I crossed the room, opened it, and found a cream envelope beneath a stack of hospital pamphlets. My name was handwritten on the front. Or rather, a version of my name. Gavin R.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
No letterhead. No signature.
Just four typed lines.
Stay away from Gavin Rowan.
He has chosen his future.
Any child you claim is his will be challenged.
Do not test people who can bury you in court.
The room blurred around the edges.
“That didn’t come from me,” I said.
Emily’s eyes glistened. “I know that now.”
“Now?”
“At the time, I didn’t.”
I read it again. Each sentence was cold, legalistic, and cruel in its precision. Not emotional. Not impulsive. Written by someone who understood fear, reputation, and leverage.
Someone who understood my world.
“I would never threaten you,” I said.
“I wanted to believe that.”
“But you didn’t.”
Her silence answered.
It should have angered me. Instead, it hollowed me out.
What kind of husband had I been that a typed threat could sound like something I might allow? What kind of man had I become that the woman who once slept beside me believed power mattered more to me than truth?
I lowered the letter.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Emily’s eyes widened slightly, as though she had expected denial, not apology.
“I’m sorry that I made it possible for you to believe this,” I said. “I’m sorry I left you alone long before I walked out.”
For a moment, the only sound was the soft hum of the heater and the wind brushing snow against the glass.
Margaret rose. “There’s another reason I came tonight.”
Emily’s face tightened again. “The records?”
Margaret nodded.
I looked up. “What records?”
