I didn't knock on the door, nor did I cry.
I left the bourbon where they could find it, went into the service alcove, and pressed the record button.
My mother left first, already calling the lawyer who had drafted the documents. Natalie followed her, telling someone on the phone that I would give in on Sunday because I still wanted her approval. They passed so close I could smell my mother's Chanel perfume, and at that moment I wanted nothing to do with them.
By midnight, I was already in an Uber on my way to Logan Airport. In the morning, I had left, with my phone off, my location hidden, and my family's group chat overflowing on the screen I was checking from a villa in Costa Rica.
They found the bourbon.
They found the recordings from the hallway.
They realized that I had heard enough.
For fourteen days, panic reigned. My mother called me selfish. Natalie called me worried. Uncle Richard called me disappointing. They had no idea that I was using those same fourteen days to prepare for the Boston Literary Awards, where SH Montgomery would finally stop using the pseudonym.
The ceremony took place at the Four Seasons. My mother was on the board of directors, which meant she would be in the front row, smiling for the cameras, pretending to be a patron of the arts. Natalie would be by her side, dressed like a winner, but gripped by panic.
