Chapter 2

I made it three blocks before my hands shook too hard to drive.

I pulled the car onto the shoulder of Route 9, killed the engine, and put my forehead on the steering wheel. The leather smelled like Kevin's cologne. I jerked back so fast I cracked my elbow on the door handle.

The phone in my lap was already ringing Sophia before I knew I'd dialed.

"Lena? Honey, it's almost ten — "

"Soph."

"What's wrong. Where are you."

"Can I come over."

"I'm opening the gate now. Drive slow. Whatever it is, drive slow."

I drove slow.

Sophia lived in a brownstone on West 84th her grandfather had left her, all warm wood and crooked floors, and when she opened the door she was already barefoot in a robe with the sash trailing. She didn't ask. She pulled me inside and turned the deadbolt with her thumb.

"Couch. Now. I'm getting wine."

"I don't want — "

"It's not for drinking. It's for holding."

She pressed a glass into my hand and folded my fingers around the stem like I was a child. The stem was cold. I focused on that — the cold glass, the small weight, the way the wine moved when my whole body kept twitching, like something under my skin was trying to get out.

"Tell me."

So I told her. The thyme. The laugh through the ceiling. The line about Queens. The wax seal cracking on my thumb. How I'd recognized the oyster silk robe — *my* birthday robe — on a stranger walking down my own staircase, and how I'd bolted out the side door before her foot hit the bottom step.

Sophia didn't interrupt me once. When I finished, she set her glass on the coffee table.

"That motherfucker," she said, quiet. "That absolute motherfucker."

"He told me it was a paper divorce."

"I know what he told you. I was at the brunch. He looked me in the eye and said it."

Her jaw was working under the skin. I watched her swallow it down.

"Where are the papers."

"What papers."

"The divorce papers, Lena. The ones you signed Tuesday. You said his lawyer gave you a copy."

"They're in my bag."

"Get them."

I got them.

Sophia spread the document across her coffee table and pulled her reading glasses down off her head. Her finger moved one line at a time. I sat on the edge of the couch and watched her face. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked once, twice, six times.

She stopped on page four.

"Okay," she said, in a voice I had never heard her use. "I want you to breathe while I read this."

"Soph — "

"Ten thousand dollars."

The number didn't land. It sat on top of the air between us.

"What."

"Settlement to wife. Ten thousand dollars. One residential property — Lot 14, Birch Hollow, Putnam County. He's giving you a tract house in a subdivision off the Taconic. Everything else — Fort Holdings shares, this brownstone he keeps as office, the Hamptons place, the gallery loan he took out in your name — everything stays with him. You waived spousal support. You waived discovery. You signed a non-disclosure on page seven."

I heard her. I couldn't make the sounds turn into anything.

"Forty-two thousand," I said.

"What, sweetie."

"My mother's trust. I gave him forty-two thousand. Five years ago. On the courthouse steps."

The glass was still in my hand. I noticed I was tipping it. Red ran over my knuckles and into the cuff of my sweater and onto Sophia's cream couch, and I watched it happen like it was someone else's hand.

She took the glass away from me.

"Breathe. In through your nose."

"I can't — "

"Look at me. In through your nose."

The breath came in jagged and went out worse. My ribs felt wrong. Like something had been taken out from between them and stitched back, and now they didn't fit. My vision pulled in at the edges until Sophia's face was at the end of a long pale tunnel and her mouth was moving and the sound was on a half-second delay.

I folded forward and put my forehead on the coffee table next to the agreement and made a noise I did not recognize.

Five years. Three of them real, by his own math. Two of them a script he'd been running while I made him soup and held his face and signed every paper he slid under my hand.

Ten thousand dollars.

That was what I was worth to him. Less than the watch on his wrist. Less than one night at the hotel in Capri.

I don't know how long I stayed folded like that. Sophia's hand was on the back of my neck, warm, not moving. She was humming something. A lullaby. Something her mother used to sing.

When I sat up, my face was wet and the cuff of my sweater was wine-dark to the elbow.

"Okay," she said, pushing the hair off my forehead. "We are going to fix this. You are not signing anything else, you are not picking up his calls, you are — "

My phone lit up on the coffee table.

**KEVIN.**

Sophia's hand stopped at my temple.

"Don't."

"He doesn't know I came home tonight. He doesn't know I heard him. If I don't answer, he'll know."

I picked up before I lost the nerve. I made my voice the voice of a woman who'd spent the evening at her best friend's apartment because her husband was working late again.

"Hi."

"Lena. Thank God. Where are you."

"Sophia's. Why."

"Listen to me. There's been an accident. One of my secretaries, she was in a cab on the FDR, the cab got hit. She's at Mount Sinai. She's losing blood faster than they can replace it and her type is rare. AB negative. They pulled the registry — Lena, you're the closest match in the system."

The room tipped half an inch and came back.

"Me."

"You donated at that drive in March, the hospital has your file. Baby, please. I know things have been — I know we need to talk. But this girl is twenty-six years old and she is going to die on the table if you don't come."

A girl. Not a woman. A girl.

"What's her name."

A pause. Half a second. Long enough to mean something.

"Ruby. Her name is Ruby. Lena, please."

I looked at Sophia. She was reading my face. She had heard the word *please*, which in five years of knowing Kevin Fort she had never once heard him say.

"I'm coming."

I hung up.

"You are not — "

"Soph. AB negative is one in two hundred. If I don't go, she dies."

"Let her."

The flatness of it stopped me. Sophia met my eyes and didn't blink.

"You and I both know you can't," she said. "Which is why he called."

She grabbed her keys off the bowl by the door.

"I'm driving."

The trip from her garage to the Mount Sinai ER took ninety seconds. Sophia held my elbow the whole way through the lobby. Bleach and wet coats. A triage nurse pointed us down a corridor before I'd finished saying Kevin's name.

He was standing outside Trauma 3.

His shirt was untucked. A smear of something dark dried on his cuff. When he saw me, his face did a thing I had been married to for five years and never seen before — it broke open, fully, and reassembled in the half-second it took him to cross the floor and grab my shoulders.

"Thank you. Thank you. Thank you."

"Where do I sign."

"They have the consent at the desk. The phlebotomist is — Lena, look at me. *Thank you.*"

I didn't look at him.

I looked past his shoulder, through the narrow window in the trauma room door.

She was on the gurney. An oxygen tube hooked into her nose. Her hair had been pushed back off a face that was the color of skim milk, and her head was turned toward the glass, mouth slack, eyes half-open at the ceiling.

I knew that face.

Not from a photo on Kevin's desk. Not from any office party.

From three hours ago, in the oyster silk robe I'd worn on my last birthday, taking the first bare step down my staircase toward the entryway where I stood holding a cracked wax seal in my hand.