After a while, she said, "What happens now?"
I dried my face with my sweater sleeve. "We'll find out what's in the Crown Ridge files."
"And then?"
"I don't know."
That answer would have terrified me in another time. Jason had taught me to fear uncertainty because it always presented itself as the only solution.
But sitting in that imperfect apartment with my sister by my side and the soup heating up on the stove, I realized that not knowing could also be a beginning.
The following morning, Daniel filed an emergency motion to preserve the contents of the Crown Ridge account. At noon, Judge Hayes issued a limited order preventing the removal or destruction of documents while the case was reviewed.
At 3 p.m., Crown Ridge Archives stated that there had been a failure in the sprinkler system of the wing where Whitaker Holdings stored its materials.
Daniel called me to give me the news.
"No," I said immediately.
"I don't think so either," he replied.
“How serious?”
“They say several boxes suffered water damage. The digital hard drives were stored separately and are supposedly intact, but we need independent verification.”
"Supposedly," I repeated.
“I will go there tomorrow morning with an expert appointed by the court.”
"I'm coming."
There was a pause.
"Iris-"
"Come."
This time, Daniel didn't argue.
The Crown Ridge archives were located just outside the city limits, beyond a row of bare sycamores and a gated driveway marked PRIVATE PROPERTY. The building itself resembled a museum more than a warehouse: limestone facade, tinted windows, and discreet chambers tucked away beneath the eaves. It was the kind of place wealthy people used when they wanted to hide things in plain sight.
Daniel, Priya, the court-appointed examiner, and I arrived shortly after nine.
To my surprise, Madison was already there.
She stood near the entrance, dressed in dark trousers and a camel coat, her hair simply pulled back. Without the white dress, without Jason by her side, she looked younger. Tired. Human.
Daniel stepped forward a little. "Miss Brooks."
Madison looked at him, and then at me.
"I gave him the address of his office," she said.
Priya looked down at her phone. "The anonymous tip?"
Madison nodded.
I watched her. "Why?"
She seemed to be searching for the version of herself that knew how to respond.
“Because last night Jason asked me to lie,” she said. “Not about the infidelity. Not about the money. About you. He wanted me to say I saw you hurting yourself. That you talked about ruining him. That you forged documents before.”
The words had an impact, but not with the same intensity as before. Perhaps cruelty could only shock a person a limited number of times before that shock turned into recognition.
—And you refused? —I asked.
“I told him I needed time.”
“That’s not the same as refusing.”
—No —he admitted—. It isn't.
A security guard opened the doors before I could answer. His name was Mr. Albright, and he had the forced politeness of a man whose morning had turned into a legal inconvenience. He led us through a quiet lobby and down a corridor where every footstep echoed.
“The affected materials were moved to a drying room,” he explained. “We followed the conservation protocol.”
Daniel's voice was cold. "Who gained access to the Whitaker Holdings unit yesterday?"
Mr. Albright hesitated. "I'll give the access logs to the examiner."
—Now —said Daniel.
The manager's smile faded.
He handed over a printed sheet.
Daniel read it first. Then Priya. Then she passed it on to me.
My eyes found the names.
Jason Mitchell: 16:42
Evelyn Mitchell: 17:16
Unknown authorized guest: 17:19
I looked up.
“Who was the guest?”
Mr. Albright shifted uncomfortably. “The guest was checked in with Mrs. Mitchell’s authorization.”
I frowned. "From Evelyn?"
"No," he said carefully. "Yours."
For a second, I thought I had misheard him.
"I've never been here before," I said.
He seemed uncomfortable. "The system shows Iris Mitchell as the person who authorizes the process."
Daniel's attitude changed completely. "Present the signature card."
We were led to a filing room where an employee pulled out a scanned registration form. My name was on the line, written in neat, slanted handwriting.
It was almost mine.
Almost.
But Jason had made a mistake.
My signature changed after the wrist injury I suffered seven years ago. The earlier version had a long, flowing C in Caldwell, a habit I had before I got married. The forged version used that same stroke, copied from documents I had signed before Jason knew my hand no longer moved that way comfortably.
I touched the paper lightly.
"He used an old sample," I said.
Daniel looked at the examiner. “Document this.”
The drying room smelled of damp cardboard and industrial fans. Several boxes lay open on metal tables under dim lighting. Some labels had faded, but others were still legible.
Board of Directors Meeting Minutes.
Patent Transfers.
Insurance.
Employee Medical Services.
Private Correspondence.
I got a lump in my throat with the last one.
The examiner worked methodically, photographing each box before moving anything. Daniel stood beside him, asking precise questions. Priya took notes. Madison lingered near the door, as if unsure whether she had the right to be there.
Then I saw it.
A small gray box hidden beneath a warped folder.
Unlike the others, it didn't have any printed labels. Just handwriting in black marker.
IC — PERSONAL.
My initials.
—Daniel—I said.
He turned around.
The examiner photographed the box and then lifted the lid.
Inside there were envelopes, a USB drive sealed in plastic, and a bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon.
I knew that tape.
In my first apartment, that same fabric had been used to hold up the curtains, back when I was twenty-six and believed that loving meant being seen clearly.
My hands were trembling as I tried to pick up the cards.
