Chapter 3 - The Woman Who Kept Copies
Anika Shah asked to meet somewhere Grant’s employees didn’t eat lunch.
We chose a crowded café two blocks from her train station.
She arrived carrying a canvas bag and wearing the expression of someone who had rehearsed leaving three times on the way there.
Anika was a senior accountant at Bennett Development. I had known her for six years. She remembered birthdays, disliked attention, and once stayed late to help a scholarship family replace documents lost in a house fire.
She wrapped both hands around her coffee.
“I need to be careful about what I share.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve spoken with my own attorney.”
“Good.”
That seemed to steady her.
She told me the foundation’s accounting had become increasingly entangled with company processes. Requests that once came from me now arrived through Vanessa’s office.
Some invoices were vague.
Some payment descriptions changed.
When Anika asked questions, she was told the board had approved a temporary arrangement.
“I believed it at first,” she said. “There were documents.”
“The consent.”
She nodded.
“I’ve disputed that signature.”
“I know. Helen contacted the outside accounting firm.”
I watched a man at the next table help his daughter peel the wrapper from a muffin.
Ordinary kindness seemed almost painful lately.
Anika continued.
“I can’t hand you confidential company files. But I can tell you I’ve preserved what I’m authorized to preserve, and I’m prepared to cooperate with the proper review.”
“Why are you telling me?”
Her mouth trembled.
“Because I processed a late fee for a scholarship payment while an invoice for gala publicity was paid the same afternoon.”
She looked down.
“I kept thinking there must be an explanation.”
“So did I.”
We sat quietly.
Then she said, “Don’t meet with Vanessa alone.”
“Why?”
“She’s already describing you as unstable.”
The word landed exactly where it was intended to.
Not because I believed it.
Because I could see how useful it would be.
A grieving founder. An unhappy wife. A woman who had stepped away voluntarily and now regretted it.
Everything they had done could become a story about my feelings.
By the time I reached home, Grant was waiting in the kitchen.
He had flowers.
White roses, expensive enough to look impersonal.
“We need a reset,” he said.
I put my bag down.
“Do we?”
He gestured toward the breakfast room.
There was takeout from the restaurant where we had celebrated our engagement.
For one brief, treacherous moment, I remembered the man who used to ask whether I wanted the last piece of bread.
Then I saw the folder beside his plate.
“What’s that?”
“A proposal.”
“From whom?”
“Me.”
He wanted me to take a paid advisory role at the foundation. A generous salary. Flexible responsibilities. A public statement celebrating Vanessa’s operational leadership.
In return, I would approve the transition and resolve disputes about prior management decisions.
I read the first page.
Then the second.
“You brought dinner to a negotiation.”
“I brought dinner because you’re my wife.”
“And this?”
“A way to stop us hurting each other.”
I closed the folder.
“Did you sleep with her?”
He looked toward the window.
I did not need the answer.
But I waited for it.
“Yes.”
The room seemed to lose its depth.
Everything flattened: flowers, plates, folder, man.
“How long?”
“Laura—”
“How long?”
“Several months.”
I nodded.
It was strange how quietly a fact could enter a life and divide it forever.
“Does she know about the proposal?”
“She knows I want stability.”
I laughed once.
Grant flinched.
“You want my signature.”
“I want us to be reasonable.”
“Then answer a reasonable question. Where is the scholarship money?”
He pushed his chair back.
“There were timing issues.”
“With which accounts?”
“You don’t understand the pressure the company is under.”
“The company?”
He stopped.
I looked down at the folder.
Then back at him.
“Did you use foundation money for Bennett Development?”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“No. The explanation may be complicated. The question isn’t.”
His jaw tightened.
“It was temporary.”
I sat very still.
From upstairs came the faint sound of Noah’s bedroom door closing.
Grant heard it too.
We looked toward the ceiling.
“How much did he hear?” he asked.
For the first time that evening, fear entered his voice without being disguised as anger.
“I don’t know.”
“You need to talk to him.”
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
Grant reached for the folder.
I put my hand on it.
“This stays with me.”
His eyes hardened.
“You can’t keep documents that belong to—”
“Finish that sentence carefully.”
He let go.
May you like
After he left, I took the roses outside and placed them beside the trash.
Then I went upstairs to find our son.
