I didn’t look at her. My hands were fists at my sides, my entire body rigid with the effort of not breaking something.
I was barely aware of her footsteps retreating down the hall.
I stood in the wreckage of a life I had kept buried. The room was silent again. The stuffed rabbit lay on its side near the dresser. I crossed the room slowly, each step measured, and lifted it from where it rested against the wall.
Dust coated the fabric. My fingers brushed it away instinctively. The rabbit was soft from years of being handled. Worn at one ear. I placed it back exactly where it belonged.
With order restored, I moved to the window and braced my hands against the sill, staring out into the dark.
The river glints faintly in the moonlight. And then I saw red taillights crest the drive.
She was leaving. Her car pulled out of my driveway.
“Fuck.” The word escaped low and furious.
I wasn’t angry at her, but at the situation. At myself. At the crack in the armor I have maintained for fifteen years.
She should not have been in there. She had no right.
That room is— Was— Mine. Ours.
I was a mess of emotions I didn’t begin to know how to untangle. I was angry she didn’t listen and came into these rooms. But I was also angry she left, even though I told her to leave.
I needed to go after her and fix this.
Instead, I carefully closed the nursery door. The click of the latch was a return to structure.
Sleep was impossible, so I headed to my office. The house felt hollow without her presence.
I sat at my desk and opened my laptop. If I cannot control the past, I will control the present.
Isabelle Blythe. Her name pulled up easily. Employment history. Education records. Financials.
I already knew the surface details, but I dug deeper. Rental inquiries. Credit checks. Rejected applications. The timeline aligned with what she told me. Maybe even longer in spirit.
Then I pivot.
Tripp Whitaker.
I open the file Chandler compiled.
Corporate holdings. Minor infractions. Civil complaints quietly settled. Internal investigations that went nowhere.
There are patterns there. Arrogance without consequence.
I expand the search parameters to the Whitaker family holdings. Alistair Whitaker seems to have a history of shielding his son's incompetence.
My fingers move faster across the keys until I find Long Creek Memory Care.
Ownership structure. Board members. Vendor contracts. Cleaning service bids. I map the network quietly, methodically.
From the research I’d done, I could see connections, leverage points, and weaknesses.
I wasn't spiraling. I was planning.
The sun began to crest the horizon by the time I leaned back in my chair. I had not slept, and I didn't feel tired.
She walked into my past without permission. She forced open something I sealed to survive.
