Chapter 4
An update popped up on the social feed. Sophia had posted it.
The photo showed a conference table, Charles seated at the head with a cold profile, half of Sophia's hand caught in the frame, two cups of coffee on the table.
The caption read: [In the moments that matter, someone always has to be there to steady him.]
Someone commented below: [Sophie and Mr. Reed really do make a lovely match.]
Sophia replied with a bashful emoji.
The barrage flooded the screen in a fury.
[She's doing it on purpose.]
[Emma, screenshot it and send it to Charles right now.]
[Let him see how his childhood sweetheart makes everyone's skin crawl.]
I saved a screenshot of that post. Then I opened my laptop and started a new spreadsheet.
I typed the title: Three Years of Shared Expenses and Amounts Fronted.
The first entry, startup office rent, thirty thousand dollars.
The second, the ER visit and follow-up tests, five thousand dollars.
The third, roadshow materials and rush printing, three thousand dollars.
The fourth, the gift I'd covered for Robert Reed's birthday dinner, twenty thousand dollars.
The fifth, the temporary advance for the team's relocation, ten thousand dollars.
After each line, I attached the transfer screenshot, the photo of the invoice, and the reference number for the chat record.
I didn't write down the things that couldn't be tallied.
Like the public recognition I waited for.
Things like the public standing I'd waited for. Like the breath I'd swallowed backstage when I heard someone call Sophia "the one at Mr. Reed's side."
Feelings don't come with receipts. So I wouldn't be claiming on those.
By one in the morning, the spreadsheet was finally done. The total came to one hundred sixty-five thousand dollars.
I deducted that sum from the two million Sarah had given me and wrote a single line: Settled in full, no further claims.
I printed the itemized list and set it dead center on the dining table.
The pills, the tie, the old key, and the blue mug sat beside it. It looked like a silent handover.
I took one last look around.
The plant on the windowsill was mine, and it had grown well. Charles once said it was more stubborn than I was, that it lived on just a splash of water.
I walked over, snipped a small sprig, tucked it into a tissue, and slipped it into the side pocket of my bag. I left the big one behind.
Not everything that has lived through something needs to be carried out.
Before the door closed, I heard the barrage drift past, low.
[How does she not even cry?]
I wheeled my suitcase into the elevator. The doors slid shut, and my face showed in the mirrored panel.
My eyes were a little red. My makeup hadn't run. Good enough.
It was nearly two in the morning when Charles got back to the apartment. He pressed the fingerprint lock, and the instant the door opened, the place was dark.
Normally at this hour, as long as I was home, the entryway would have at least one small light left on.
He'd said many times that a pitch-black house left a person with no sense of belonging. As he came home later and later, I'd grown more and more used to leaving a light on for him.
Tonight there wasn't one.
Charles stood in the entryway and frowned. He assumed I was asleep and softened his steps as he changed his shoes.
A pair of cream slippers was missing from the rack. His movement stalled for half a second. Then, as though he didn't care, he draped his coat over the crook of his arm and walked into the living room.
The paper on the dining table was the first thing to catch his eye. The itemized list lay perfectly flat.
Besides it, the pills, the tie, the old key, and the mug were each set out in order. It looked like an inventory of a dead person's belongings.
He picked up the list and saw the total at first glance. One hundred sixty-five thousand dollars.
Charles's face darkened. His first reaction was that it was absurd.
Emma was actually tallying up money with him. Three years together, and she'd laid it out line by line.
He set the paper down on the table and took out his phone to call me.
The call wouldn't connect. His messages wouldn't send. Every way of reaching me was blocked, as if by an invisible wall.
He stood at the edge of the table, his chest rising once, then turned and dialed Alex.
"Did you get through to her?" he asked.
Alex's voice was thin. "Mr. Reed, Ms. Wynn said she's moved out."
"Moved where?"
"She didn't say."
Charles closed his eyes for a moment. "Did she see my mother today?"
Alex paused. "I'm not really sure."