Chapter 2 - The Erased Ledger
"Be adults?" I echoed.
"Yes," Brooke said, smoothing the emerald silk of her dress. She walked past me out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, moving with an eerie, composed grace that made me wonder how many years of our relationship had been an orchestrated performance. "We have a life built together. We have invitations sent to two hundred and forty people. My parents paid for the flowers and the band. Your family has flown in from three states. You're hurt. You have every right to be angry. But throwing away four years over a financial strategy is childish."
"A financial strategy?" I followed her. "You conspired with your ex-boyfriend and your maid of honor to defraud me of four hundred thousand dollars of real estate so you could fund Tyler’s lounge."
"Tyler is desperate," she said dismissively, pouring herself a glass of water from the tap. Her hand was steady now. "He’s drowning in high-interest debt from his failed venture in Austin. He tracked me down because he knew I was marrying an engineer with assets. He threatened to cause a scene at the wedding. He threatened to ruin my reputation."
"So your solution wasn't to tell me," I said. "Your solution wasn't to call the police. Your solution was to sleep with him, let him photograph you, and rob me to buy his silence."
"I was managing a crisis!" she flared, slamming the glass onto the granite. "You live in a world of blueprints and load tolerances, Owen! Everything is black and white, load and support, math and logic! Real life doesn't work like that! Tyler was a fire, and I was trying to contain it before it burned down our future!"
Before I could answer, the front door rattled and swung open.
My brother Marcus stood in the foyer, holding a crowbar in one hand and his phone in the other. He is two years younger than me, broader through the shoulders, and possesses none of my patience. His eyes swept the room, taking in my pale face, the cold coffee mug on the counter, and Brooke standing there in her disheveled green dress.
"The screenshot," Marcus said, not looking at Brooke. "Tell me you didn't sign anything yet, Owen."
"The appointment was Tuesday," I said. "Nothing is signed."
Marcus let out a long, ragged exhale and dropped the crowbar onto the hall runner with a dull thud. "Thank God. Mom called me in tears twenty minutes ago. Kelsey’s idiot message popped up on her iPad because she was in that wedding planning group. Mom didn't understand it, but she knew it was poison."
Brooke crossed her arms. "Marcus, this is a private matter between Owen and me. You can leave."
Marcus finally looked at her, his expression a mixture of disgust and bewilderment. "You have thirty minutes to pack whatever fits into your car, Brooke. After that, I’m throwing your designer shoes onto the asphalt."
"This is my residence!" she shouted. "I have tenant rights! You can't just throw me out on Sunday morning!"
"Actually," I interrupted, my voice flat, "you don't have tenant rights. You maintained your primary address at your sister’s apartment in the city for tax purposes and parking permits. Your driver's license says 414 Elm Street. You never changed it. You insisted on keeping it that way so you wouldn't have to pay our borough's local earned income tax. You told me it was 'financial savvy.'"
Brooke’s mouth closed sharply.
"Pack," I said. "Or Marcus calls the constable. We can explain to him why your ex-boyfriend is extorting you and how you planned to settle it using my property."
She stared at me, searching for the man who spent forty weekends hand-sanding yellow pine beams in an old apple barn so she could have a fairy-tale walk down the aisle. She was looking for the romantic fool who had cooked her breakfast every Sunday, who had rubbed her shoulders when she complained about her boutique’s inventory, who had listened to her talk about "healing her inner child."
That man was dead. He had died at 6:52 AM when she walked through the door and smiled after spending the night in Tyler’s bed.
Brooke turned on her heel and marched into the master bedroom. Within seconds, we heard the violent scraping of hangers against the closet rod and the thumping of luggage hitting the hardwood floor.
Marcus stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Where is the ring, Owen?"
A cold weight dropped into my gut. "She said it was in her purse. Then she said it was in the car."
Marcus frowned deeply. "My grandfather gave that ring to our grandmother in 1953 before he shipped out to Korea. If she lost that ring, Owen, I will personally tear her car apart bolt by bolt."
"It's not lost," I said, a sickening intuition washing over me. I remembered Brooke's slight hesitation in the kitchen when she patted down her bag. The momentary flick of panic in her eyes before she smoothly deflected.
I walked down the hall to the master bedroom. Brooke was stuffing silk blouses into a leather duffel bag.
"Brooke," I said.
She didn't turn around. "What? Can't you see I’m doing what you asked?"
"Empty your purse on the bed."
She froze, her hand buried in a pile of scarves. "I told you, it’s in the console of the Audi."
"Then we'll go get it right now together."
She pulled her hand back, turning around slowly. The defiance that had sustained her for the last half-hour was beginning to fray at the edges, revealing raw, jagged fear.
May you like
"Tyler has it," she whispered.
***
