Chapter 6: Her Name Was Carla
I didn't sleep.
I lay on my side of the bed with Chloe tucked against me and stared at the wall while David's breathing on the other side of the mattress stayed slow and even.
He had come to bed at eleven without a word.
He had not asked how Chloe was.
He had not looked at her bruised cheek.
He had set his phone face-down on the nightstand and closed his eyes.
I watched the ceiling and thought about a red sedan in a driveway three states away.
At 5:40 a.m., I carried Chloe to the guest room — not Margaret's guest room, the small one at the end of the hall we used for storage — and made her a nest of blankets on the daybed.
I kissed her forehead.
She didn't wake up.
I went back to the bedroom, took my phone off the charger, and went downstairs.
Diane had texted at 2 a.m.: *Her name is Carla Voss.
She's a nurse at Mercy General.
I found her LinkedIn.
She's been there four years.*
Four years.
The same four years I had been married to David.
The same four years I had been paying Margaret's insurance premiums and buying Jackson's winter coats and building a freelance business from my kitchen table while David told me I was only successful because he let me play on the computer.
I sat at the kitchen table in the dark and read Carla Voss's LinkedIn profile on my phone.
Her photo was professional — dark hair, a direct smile, the kind of person who looked competent and warm at the same time.
She had worked at Mercy General for four years and two months.
Her location was listed as the exact city where the house was registered.
I put the phone down on the table.
I thought about the restaurant receipt.
Two Saturdays ago.
A Saturday David said he was working late.
I thought about the sales conference this weekend.
Three days.
I had never called the hotel to confirm he was there.
It had never occurred to me to check.
I picked the phone back up and called the hotel number listed on the conference itinerary David had left on the refrigerator.
The front desk answered on the second ring.
"Good morning, thank you for calling the Marriott downtown.
How can I help you?"
"Hi," I said.
"I'm trying to reach a guest.
David Sterling.
He should have checked in Friday."
A pause.
Keyboard sounds.
"I'm sorry, ma'am.
I don't show a reservation under that name for this weekend."
I kept my voice steady.
"Could you check under Sterling, first name David?
He may have booked under his company."
"I've checked both ways.
I'm not showing anything.
Is it possible he's at one of our other properties?"
"No," I said.
"Thank you."
I ended the call.
The kitchen was very quiet.
The refrigerator hummed.
Outside, a bird started up in the yard — small, persistent, indifferent.
I heard a footstep on the stairs.
Margaret appeared in the kitchen doorway in her robe, her hand on the frame, looking at me sitting alone at the table in the dark.
"You're up early," she said.
Not a question.
"Yes."
She moved to the cabinet and took out a mug.
She filled it from the coffee maker I had set the night before.
She didn't offer me any.
She sat down across from me.
"You should reinstate my policy today," she said.
"David will be very unhappy if you don't."
"David isn't at the conference," I said.
She wrapped both hands around the mug.
Her expression didn't change, but her knuckles shifted — a small tightening.
"Of course he is."
"The hotel has no reservation under his name."
Silence.
"You're paranoid," she said.
"You've always been paranoid.
It's exhausting to live with."
"How long have you known about Carla Voss?"
The mug went down on the table.
Hard.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You called Phillip last night.
You said I won't last the year.
You said David already knows what he needs to do." I looked at her across the table.
"How long have you known?"
Margaret's mouth pressed into a thin line.
For a moment she said nothing.
Then she leaned forward slightly.
"You want to know the truth?" Her voice dropped.
"From the beginning.
I told him to end it with you before the wedding.
You were never right for this family.
You were never going to be." She picked the mug back up.
"Carla understands us.
She knows her place.
She doesn't cancel insurance policies and sl@p people in their own home."
"This is my home," I said.
"Not for much longer." She said it simply, like a fact.
"David has a lawyer.
He has a plan.
And you have nothing."
I looked at her for a long moment.
"I have everything," I said.
She laughed — the same dry, condescending laugh from the living room the day before.
She stood up, picked up her mug, and walked back toward the hallway.
"You have until the end of the week," she said without turning around.
"After that, David's attorney will be in touch."
She went upstairs.
May you like
I sat in the quiet kitchen and opened my phone.
I had recorded the entire conversation.
