Chapter 4 - The Sound of the Router
By the time we returned to our Greenwich estate, the clock on the dashboard read 11:15 PM.
The house was dark, save for the motion-sensor exterior lights that flared as Grant pulled the Bentley into the three-car garage. He cut the engine, sat in the silence for a moment, and then turned to me, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from my cheek.
"Rough night?" he asked, his voice soft, almost tender. "Mother can be a bit overwhelming, I know. But she loves you, Em."
"She loves the family name," I corrected gently, opening the passenger door before he could climb out to open it for me. "There's a difference."
Grant followed me up the stone steps, unlocking the front door and disarming the security system with his four-digit PIN. As we stepped into the grand foyer, he kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and headed straight for the wet bar in the study.
"Can I get you a decaf tea? Warm milk?" he called out over his shoulder.
"No, thank you. I'm going straight up," I said, keeping my steps measured as I climbed the grand staircase.
From the second-floor landing, I watched him through the banister rails. He poured a finger of scotch, took a slow sip, and pulled his phone from his pocket. His thumb moved rapidly across the screen—not scrolling through emails, but tapping out a message with the fierce, focused rhythm I now recognized instantly.
Natalie.
I didn't wait. I walked down the carpeted hallway into the master suite, closed the heavy mahogany door, and locked it.
For the first time in three years, I didn't feel a pang of anxiety behind that locked door. I didn't wonder who he was texting or what excuse he was manufacturing. I walked into the walk-in closet, retrieved the second flash drive from inside the hollowed-out dictionary on the shelf, and placed it safely inside the zippered pocket of my overnight bag, which I had tucked discreetly behind the winter coats earlier that morning.
Then I walked down the hall to the nursery.
The room was bathed in the soft, warm glow of a nightlight we had chosen together. The ivory crib sat empty against the wall, surrounded by floating shelves of children's books and a hand-painted mural of woodland animals that Grant had spent a whole weekend completing.
I placed my hand against my stomach. Inside, our daughter gave a sharp, definitive kick, as if reminding me she was already taking up space in the world.
"We're going to be fine," I whispered to the empty room. "I promise you."
Back in the master bedroom, the digital clock on the bedside table read 12:42 AM when Grant finally tried the handle of the door.
Click. Click.
May you like
"Em?" his voice drifted through the mahogany, sounding mildly confused, not yet panicked. "Why is the door locked?"
I lay flat on my back in the center of the king-sized bed, staring up at the white crown molding. I didn't answer. I let him stand out in the hallway in the dark—just for a few minutes—experiencing the very first taste of being locked out of a life he thought he owned.
