“Give me another hour.”
I went upstairs.
Sat on the edge of the bed.
Opened my laptop and found the family law attorney’s website again.
This time I filled out the contact form.
Her name was Patricia Holt.
She had an office above a dry cleaner on a street I had driven past a hundred times without noticing.
Her waiting room had two chairs and a plant that was doing better than expected.
She was in her early sixties, direct, and she did not waste time.
“Tell me what you know,” she said.
“Start with the marriage, end with this week.”
I told her everything.
The eight years.
The Thursday routine.
The key.
The phone.
The school sign-out log.
The lease.
The nine thousand nine hundred dollars.
The private savings account with fourteen thousand in it.
The mother-in-law who had known.
Patricia Holt took notes on a yellow legal pad and did not interrupt once.
When I finished, she set her pen down.
“First question,” she said.
“Do you want to save the marriage or end it?”
“I don’t know yet,” I said.
“I need to know what each option actually looks like before I can decide.”
“Good answer.” She picked up her pen again.
