I stared at it for a full minute before opening it.
She asked to meet. Said she had information I should have. Said she understood if I ignored her.
I almost did.
Then I pictured her necklace in that photo. The cream coat. The candlelight. The easy lean of Nathan’s body toward hers. I wanted to hate her in a clean, uncomplicated way. But reality was rarely generous enough to stay simple, and information is information.
So I met her.
We chose a coffee shop in Darien on a Monday afternoon because it was neutral and full of witnesses. I left Nora with Roz, who responded to the plan by saying, “If she gets cute, call me. I can be there in eleven minutes and I am not above public shame.”
Brooke was already there when I arrived.
She stood when I walked in, then sat back down almost immediately like she’d realized movement could look like confidence and didn’t feel entitled to it. She was prettier in person than in Doug’s photos, which annoyed me in a petty, human way. Dark blonde hair, camel coat, little gold hoops, the careful polish of a woman used to taking up space attractively.
She was also very obviously pregnant now.
For one ugly second, I had to grip the back of the chair before sitting because the sight of it felt like being slapped with my own timeline.
“I know you don’t owe me this,” she said.
“You’re right.”
She nodded once, accepting it.
The coffee shop smelled like espresso and cinnamon syrup. Someone at the next table was interviewing for a job. Outside, sleet had turned to a wet gray drizzle that streaked the windows.
Brooke wrapped both hands around her cup but didn’t drink.
“Nathan told me your marriage had been over for a long time,” she said. “I believed him.”
I laughed once, short and sharp. “Of course he did.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
She exhaled. “I ended things with him last week.”
That surprised me enough that I looked up fully.
“Why?”
“Because I found out about the money. And because…” She hesitated. “Because I heard him on the phone talking about your daughter like she was part of a positioning strategy.”
I said nothing.
Brooke reached into her tote and slid a small envelope toward me.
Inside were printed screenshots. Text messages. Emails.