Chapter 6: The Dinner Table
David came home at six.
I heard his car in the driveway, heard the front door open, heard him call my name from the hallway in the easy, ordinary tone of a man who believed this was still a normal Tuesday.
"Kitchen," I called back.
He appeared in the doorway.
He was still in his work clothes, jacket over one arm, and he was already reaching for his phone on the counter before he'd fully crossed the room.
He picked it up.
Looked at the screen.
Something shifted behind his eyes — just for a fraction of a second — and then his face settled back into normal.
"Forgot this," he said, holding it up with a small, self-deprecating smile.
"I know," I said.
"Dinner's almost ready."
Chloe came downstairs and the three of us sat at the table the way we always did, and David asked Chloe about her day and she told him about a project she was doing on the solar system and he listened and nodded and passed the bread, and I watched all of it from across the table like I was watching it through glass.
After Chloe went upstairs, David started clearing the plates.
"Someone tried to get into the house this morning," I said.
He stopped.
His back was to me.
"What?"
"Through the back door.
I called the police.
They followed him down the alley."
He turned around slowly.
His face was doing the right things — concern, alarm, the slight forward lean of a husband who has just heard something frightening.
But his hands were too still.
The plate he was holding didn't move.
"Are you okay?
Is Chloe—"
"We're fine," I said.
"I kept her upstairs."
"Did they catch him?"
"Not yet."
He set the plate down.
He ran a hand through his hair.
"Hannah, that's — God, that's terrifying.
Did you get a good look at him?"
"I got more than a look," I said.
He went very still.
"I recorded him," I said.
"Yesterday.
At the mall."
The color left his face the way water leaves a glass when you tip it — fast, and then gone.
"I don't know what you—"
"Your mother was there, David." My voice was completely level.
"She handed him our house key.
She gave him a schedule.
She told him exactly which documents to take and how to make it look like a burglary." I folded my hands on the table.
"And someone named R sent you a message at 6:51 this morning telling you that I was getting suspicious."
He didn't move.
He didn't speak.
The kitchen clock ticked.
"I want you to tell me the truth," I said.
"Right now.
Not a version of it.
The truth."
He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down heavily.
"It wasn't supposed to go this far," he said.
"What was it supposed to go?"
He looked at the table.
"Mom said if we had the original documents, we could restructure the property before — before any legal process started.
She said it would protect both of us."
"Protect both of you from what?"
He looked up.
"I filed for divorce three weeks ago, Hannah.
My attorney has the papers.
I was going to tell you this week."
The clock ticked again.
"And the passports?" I asked.
His jaw tightened.
"That was Mom's idea.
Not mine.
I told her no."
"But you didn't stop her."
He didn't answer.
I stood up and picked up my phone from the counter.
"My attorney's name is Patricia Welles," I said.
"She'll be in touch with yours tomorrow morning." I walked to the kitchen doorway and stopped.
"And David — the video I have of your mother and that man?
I've already sent a copy to Marcus.
And to the police."
He stared at me.
"The passports are in my sister's house," I said.
"So is the blue binder.
May you like
So is everything."
I left him sitting at the table with the plates half-cleared and the kitchen light humming above him, and I went upstairs to check on our daughter.
