Chapter 3: A Father’s Version
I didn’t call my supervisor. I didn’t answer the second message. I put my phone facedown on my lap and told Claire to take me home.
She drove without asking where I’d been since leaving Northgate. At the corner, I asked her to let me out. She glanced at the folded authorization in my hand, then at my face.
“I can come up with you.”
“No.”
“Right,” she said softly. “I understand.”
I wasn’t sure she did. But I got out, shut the door, and watched her car pull away before I walked the last block alone.
Our apartment hallway smelled of radiator dust and somebody’s burnt toast. Mrs. Alvarez, our downstairs neighbor, opened her door before I could knock. Owen and Maisie had been with her while I worked, and both were asleep on her couch beneath a blanket printed with cartoon planets.
“They asked for you,” she whispered. “I told them you were on your way.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry it got so late.”
“Don’t apologize for having a job.”
That kindness nearly undid me. I thanked her again, then carried Maisie home, her cheek warm against my shoulder. Owen followed, rubbing his eyes and insisting he wasn’t tired.
Once they were settled in their beds, I went to the kitchen. The authorization was still folded in my pocket. I slid it between the back cover and the last page of an old household binder, then pushed the binder behind a stack of recipe books in the cupboard.
It was a flimsy hiding place. It was the only one I had time to make.
The knock came three minutes later.
I froze. Owen’s bedroom door was cracked open down the hall. Maisie had already fallen asleep with one hand curled under her chin.
Another knock.
I opened the door but kept the chain on.
Travis stood in the hallway, his coat still buttoned, his expression arranged into concern. He looked past me into the apartment, as if checking whether the children were there.
“What are you doing here?”
“We need to talk.”
“Not tonight.”
He lowered his voice. “You’re making this worse than it needs to be.”
I started to close the door. His palm caught it—not forcing it open, just stopping it long enough to make sure I heard him.
“Let go.”
He did. The small restraint felt rehearsed.
“I’m offering you a way out,” he said. “Money. Enough to get you settled and take care of the kids. You sign the divorce papers, stop stirring up questions at Northgate, and we don’t turn this into a war.”
“You mean I agree not to challenge the transfer.”
“I mean you don’t destroy your own life over a misunderstanding.”
“Your adviser called it three-point-four million dollars.”
His face tightened, then smoothed again. “You don’t know what you heard.”
“I heard my name. I heard you say my signature was on the paperwork.”
“Your signature is on a lot of old paperwork.”
That answer landed harder than a denial. He knew exactly how ordinary my trust had made those signatures.
He glanced toward the hallway again. “Do the kids need to hear about this?”
“No. They don’t.”
“Good. Then let’s keep it that way.” He leaned closer, speaking softly enough that the neighbors wouldn’t hear. “A criminal inquiry can complicate custody arrangements, Eliza. You don’t want your children wondering why their mother is being questioned.”
For a moment, all I could see was Owen’s face asleep beneath the planet blanket. I gripped the edge of the door until my fingers hurt.
“You’re using them to make me sign.”
“I’m trying to keep them out of it.”
“You brought it to my door.”
His expression hardened. “I’m offering you money and a clean exit. Take it.”
“I won’t.”
The answer came out quieter than I expected, but it didn’t shake.
Travis stared at me as if the woman refusing him were someone he hadn’t thought to prepare for. Then he straightened his coat.
“Don’t come back to Northgate.”
“I work there.”
“Not anymore.”
He walked toward the stairs. I shut the door and locked it, then stood with my hand on the deadbolt, listening until his footsteps faded.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. The supervisor had called once, then sent a message.
You’re suspended pending review of the access report. I’m sorry. Please don’t come in for your next shift.
The words blurred, then sharpened again. I had counted on that paycheck for groceries, rent, and the school shoes Maisie had outgrown. Travis hadn’t just taken my place at Northgate. He’d managed to make my work there look like evidence against me.
A small sound came from the hall.
Owen stood at his bedroom door, hair mussed, one hand pressed against the frame. He’d heard enough. Maybe more than enough.
“Go back to bed, honey.”
“Was Dad here to give you money?”
My throat tightened. “He was here to talk to me.”
“About the company?”
I wanted to say no. I wanted to tuck him back beneath his blanket and make the grown-up world stop reaching through the walls.
“Some of it.”
His eyes dropped to the floor. “He said you could get in trouble.”
I crossed the hall but stopped before touching him. He looked old enough to understand that adults lied and young enough to believe every lie might be his fault.
“Did Dad say I stole something?” I asked.
Owen’s mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then he looked up at me.
May you like
“Mom,” he said, “are you a thief?”
The question had no accusation in it. That made it worse. I had to answer before he went to bed, and there was no paper I could show him that would make the truth simple.
