Chapter 4

The drafting department at Winslow Engineering occupied the basement.

Wide-format printers spat out blueprints without pause. The air smelled of ink, old coffee, and heat from the metal computer towers. It had nothing in common with the quiet, sunlit rooms of the Carrick estate.

Yet the moment I sat down, I felt as if I had finally returned somewhere familiar.

A young engineer named Eli dropped a thick stack of files on my desk.

"Warren wants you to check the load-bearing column data. Verify the calculations. Don't touch the design."

He was not exactly rude. He simply did not believe I was qualified to touch the design.

I nodded.

For the first twenty minutes, the numbers felt unfamiliar.

Seven years was enough time for software to go through several updates. It was also enough time for someone who had once stood at the forefront of a project to be assigned the workstation in the farthest corner.

Then I saw the load distribution diagram for the third floor, and something long dormant in my mind snapped awake.

I picked up a red pen and rewrote the formula.

Eli's shear value was off by four percent. On a spreadsheet, that was a small error. In a high-rise, it could mean the failure of an entire floor under extreme wind loads.

Before noon, I returned the corrected plans to his desk.

Eli's expression changed when he saw the red circles.

Warren came out of his office, picked up the plans, and studied them for a moment.

"You're not completely rusty," he said.

"Almost."

"What about the three patents?"

I knew he was not asking a technical question.

"My attorney is seeking an injunction."

Warren looked at me. He offered neither advice nor congratulations.

"Focus on doing today's work well."

That was exactly what I needed to hear.

After work, I stopped at a nearby grocery store to buy dinner. In the fourth aisle, I saw the star-shaped cheese crackers Nico would eat and nothing else.

My hand reached for them automatically.

Only after I placed the box in my cart did I remember that I would not be returning to that house tonight.

The pain came without warning.

I could stop being Blaine's wife, but I could not leave six years of love for my son behind when I walked out that door.

I kept the crackers.

Back at my temporary apartment, I texted Teresa to ask whether Nico had taken his medication on time. She did not reply for a long while. When she finally did, all she said was that everything was fine.

I stared at those words and knew Blaine did not want me contacting our son.

Marshall told me to wait two more days. We had filed for a temporary parenting order, and until Blaine was formally served, I could not give him any chance to accuse me of taking Nico without permission.

So I put the star crackers in the empty cupboard.

The next afternoon, I was revising the plans Eli had resubmitted when the entire drafting department fell silent.

The click of dress shoes against the floor drew closer.

I did not need to look up to know who it was.

I had breathed in Blaine's cedar cologne for seven years.

"That's enough, Meredith."

I set down my red pen.

Blaine stood in the narrow aisle. His charcoal suit looked out of place among the worn cubicle walls. His tie was crooked, and shadows darkened the skin beneath his eyes.

This was probably the first time in seven years that he had truly noticed things at home did not take care of themselves.

"You've been gone four days," he said. "The house is a disaster. Nico couldn't find his spacer last night and stayed up crying until morning."

"It's in the right-side compartment of his Seattle travel bag, beside the spare inhaler. I reminded you before you left."

Blaine's expression stiffened for a moment.

But he had not come to talk about Nico. A second later, he placed a bank document on my desk.

"A transfer from the offshore trust was blocked. You're still the primary security contact. Give me the master authorization code."

Of course.

He had not come because I left. He had not come because our son missed me.

He was here because, at last, he had encountered a problem he needed me to solve.

"Can't your assistant handle it?"

"Stop this nonsense." He lowered his voice. "Give me the code, then pack your things and come home. I won't hold the last few days against you."

Everyone around us lowered their heads and pretended to work.

I looked at the man with whom I had shared seven years of my life and found him suddenly unfamiliar.

Or perhaps I was seeing him clearly for the first time.

"You didn't see the envelope on your desk?"

Blaine frowned.

"What envelope?"

I did not answer. I tore a page from my notepad, wrote down a string of letters and numbers, and pushed it toward him.

He glanced at it and took the page.

"I have a business dinner tonight. Be home by eight."

"That isn't the bank authorization code."

Blaine stopped.

"What?"

"The number in your hand is my divorce case number."

He slowly turned around.

I picked up my red pen and returned my attention to the plans.

"The bank blocked the transfer because, at two this afternoon, my attorney revoked every authorization I held on Carrick Group's private accounts."

The department fell so quiet that only the printers could be heard.

"Is this some kind of joke?" Blaine asked.

"No."

I turned a page and added one last sentence in an even voice.

"A process server is waiting for you in the lobby at Carrick Group."

"So you should go back and accept your divorce papers, Blaine."