Chapter 7 - THE WOMAN WHO WALKED AWAY
The apartment Mara found was on the third floor of an unremarkable brick building above a locksmith's shop. Its kitchen had mismatched tiles. The bedroom window overlooked a fire escape and a narrow strip of sky. The lock belonged to Paige, the lease was temporary but legitimate, and there were no men stationed outside her door pretending not to watch.
Paige stood in the empty living room with two shopping bags at her feet and began to cry.
She cried for the two years she had spent hiding in Oregon. She cried for her mother, whose forged signatures still appeared on deeds after she had been buried. She cried for the eleven minutes at the altar when Colin's hand had been crushing hers. Then she wiped her face, went downstairs, and bought a secondhand lamp. It cast an uneven gold circle across the room that night. She had never loved a piece of furniture more.
Gabriel called at seven, exactly when she had said he could.
"Are you settled?" he asked.
"I have a bed, a lamp, and three spoons. The spoons don't match."
"Sounds better than my place."
"It is in some ways."
He accepted that without protest. "Inez says Mara wants to meet about the Catherine documents."
"Tomorrow. I have an appointment at the old law-office address before that. The one Mom wrote on Beatrice's photograph."
"Do you need transportation?"
"I've arranged it."
"All right."
There was a pause. Paige could hear a page turning on his end. "Gabriel?"
"Yes?"
"I know Tomas worked for you for years. I'm sorry he betrayed you."
"I'm sorry I gave him access to places he could use to hurt you."
"Both things can be true."
He was quiet. "You've said that before."
"I'm trying to get better at it."
Living alone also required relearning things that fear had made difficult. On her second night in the apartment, Paige heard footsteps on the stairs and sat awake with her keys in her fist. She checked the peephole instead of opening the door; a neighbor was carrying groceries upstairs. In the morning she introduced herself and learned the neighbor was a retired music teacher who collected houseplants. The exchange lasted less than a minute. It mattered because Paige had chosen to know someone without calculating whether Colin might punish her for it. When the landlord handed her an extra copy of her key, she put it on a separate ring labeled HOME. She had not used that word without hesitation in a long time.
The next morning Mara accompanied Paige to the address Catherine had written eleven years earlier. The old law office had become a nonprofit records center. Its director, Nina Finley, was the daughter of the attorney who had represented Beatrice Rowan. Nina had inherited a storage room full of closed case files and an unfortunate talent for remembering promises.
"My father told me to keep this one if Catherine's daughter ever appeared," Nina said, opening a drawer. "He died three years ago. I thought nobody would come."
She placed a sealed envelope on the table. Across the front, in Catherine's handwriting, were the words FOR PAIGE, WHEN SHE CAN DECIDE FOR HERSELF. Paige's throat closed.
"What is it?" Mara asked.
"Your mother's copy of the Beatrice Rowan dispute," Nina said. "Dad told her the original deeds were being substituted. He advised Catherine to file a preservation notice. She did. The county never recorded it."
Inside the envelope were bank statements, photocopied deeds, and a series of letters from women whose families had been pressured into transfers disguised as marriages or debt settlements. The women were not all related to one another. They had one thing in common: valuable property the Wexler companies wanted without paying its real price.
Catherine had annotated every transaction. Next to Arthur's name she had written, Ask him again. Next to Richard Wexler's signature, she had drawn a thick box. Several pages were addressed to a district attorney who had left office before receiving them.
At the back was a letter for Paige.
My darling girl, it began. If you're reading this, someone has finally given you the right to know what I found. I hope it isn't because you're in danger. Your father is not a monster, but fear and greed have been teaching him to do monstrous things. Do not mistake my love for him for permission to trust him. And do not mistake anyone else's promise of protection for a reason to surrender your own choices.
Paige had to stop reading. She carried the letter to the window and looked out at commuters hurrying through the street. Her mother had written those words before Paige was old enough to imagine marriage, much less to fear it.
When she could breathe again, she returned to the table. "What happened to Beatrice?"
Nina turned to a new page. "She didn't disappear. She changed her name after securing a confidential settlement, and my father helped her move. She left a letter authorizing us to contact her if the other cases were reopened."
Mara looked at Paige. "We can ask whether she's willing."
"Ask. Don't tell her she owes us anything."
Beatrice called that evening. Her voice was steady, though she paused when she heard Catherine's name. She lived now in Vermont and worked with survivors of financial abuse. She had built a new life and had no desire to see her old name in headlines.
"Your mother stood beside me when my own lawyer told me to sign whatever they put in front of me," Beatrice said. "She wasn't fearless. She was furious. There's a difference."
"Did she believe Richard threatened her?" Paige asked.
"Yes. He told her that if she kept digging, she'd lose everything she loved. She kept records anyway."
Paige glanced at the letter. "I thought her car accident was just an accident."
"I don't know what caused it," Beatrice said. "I won't invent an answer because we both want one. But she kept a duplicate of every document in case something happened. I can help explain them."
Her refusal to speculate gave Paige more comfort than an elaborate conspiracy might have. Truth could survive uncertainty. It didn't need to pretend to fill every space.
That night Gabriel came to the apartment after Paige invited him, bringing no entourage through the building's front door. One driver waited in a nearby public garage. Gabriel looked enormous in the little kitchen, his expensive coat almost brushing the dish rack. He carried a paper bag.
"I brought dinner," he said. "The restaurant said the portions were for two. I suspect they meant people who haven't eaten in a week."
Paige looked inside. Pasta, roasted vegetables, and a loaf of bread. "You could have had a chef prepare something."
"I wanted to bring something I could actually carry."
She laughed, then let him put the food on the table. They ate from ordinary plates and talked about subjects neither of them was particularly good at discussing: childhood, bad music, the things they would do with a weekend that belonged to them.
Gabriel told her his mother had worked two shifts at a bakery when he was young. Paige told him about Catherine's disastrous attempts to teach her to paint landscapes. She was not ready to speak about the letter, but she showed him one page of the preserved deeds.
"I told the prosecutors my company provided security at Harrow Point," Gabriel said. "I gave them the original billing records."
"They may investigate you."
"They should."
"Would you still say that if prison were the result?"
He looked directly at her. "I spent years telling myself the rules didn't apply to me. I don't get to earn your respect by continuing that lie."
The words landed painfully close to something Paige wanted to hear. She put down her fork.
"I'm starting to care about you," she said. "That scares me."
Gabriel's face changed, not triumphantly but with a kind of stunned restraint. "You don't owe me that feeling."
"I know. That's why I can say it."
He reached for her hand, then stopped just short. Paige looked at his scarred fingers and placed her hand in his. The contact was light, and when she drew back a moment later, he let go immediately.
"I'm not ready for more," she said.
"Then this is enough."
After he left, Paige opened Catherine's letter again. She read the final sentence by lamplight: Whatever happens, my darling, no one can give you your life. It already belongs to you.
At 11:42, Mara called. Federal investigators had verified several entries from the Bride Registry against property records. Eva Reyes was alive, but she had been seen entering a Wexler-owned country hotel under escort and had not been seen leaving.
Mara's voice was tight. "They're seeking a warrant."
Paige looked at the letter. "Tell them they have to move quickly."
May you like
"They know."
Outside her window, the city kept moving. Paige touched the new lock on her door. Somewhere, another woman was being told that safety depended on doing what a powerful man wanted. Paige turned off the lamp and began assembling the evidence Eva might need when somebody finally listened.
