Chapter 25 - The Fault Lines
The drive back to our home in Westchester was a blur of gray highways and torrential rain. My mind spun in violent circles.
*Void.*
Eleven years of mortgages, joint bank accounts, shared laughter, vows spoken before friends and God, raising Toby and Leo, legally adopting Lily—all of it hanging by a thread over a legal abyss. If Marcus Vance challenged the validity of James’s marriage to me, our entire financial existence could be frozen in probate litigation, not to mention the social and emotional annihilation it would bring down on our boys.
When I pulled into the driveway, the front porch light was glowing warmly through the dusk.
I stepped into the house, closing the front door softly behind me. From the living room came the sound of classical piano music—Leo practicing his scales. In the kitchen, James was stirring a pot of pasta sauce, the familiar aroma of oregano and garlic filling the warm air.
"Sarah?" James poked his head around the doorway, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. "You're soaked! Honey, how did the meeting go?"
He walked toward me, his arms opening to embrace me.
I couldn't move. I stood rooted on the hardwood floor, water dripping from the hem of my trench coat. As he reached out to pull me close, I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the antique silver locket, holding it up between us.
James stopped dead in his tracks.
The smile on his face vanished in a fraction of a second. The color drained from his skin, turning his face the shade of chalk. His hands dropped to his sides, trembling uncontrollably.
"Where... where did you get that?" his voice was barely a rasp, stripped of all breath.
"A courier delivered it from Zurich on Saturday," I said, my voice eerily calm, the calm of someone standing in the eye of a hurricane. "And today, I had coffee with the woman who gave it to you."
James backed away two steps, hitting the wall behind him. His eyes were wide, dilated with sheer, unadulterated terror. "That's... that's impossible. Claire died in 2002. Sarah, what kind of sick joke is this?"
"It's not a joke, James," I said, stepping closer, holding out the open locket so he could see the inscription. "*Forever in the marrow of my bones.* You wrote that, didn't you? Before you took her to Vermont? Before you stood in front of a justice of the peace and swore to love her until death parted you?"
May you like
James grabbed his chest, gasping for air as if the room had suddenly lost all oxygen. "She's... she's alive?"
"She is at the Peninsula Hotel in Manhattan," I whispered, tears finally burning the backs of my eyes. "And according to New York State law, James... you are still married to her."
