Chapter 6 - The First Person Who Believed Me
Sophie Price disappeared on a Tuesday.
I remembered that Tuesday.
Not because I knew someone had vanished.
But because Jason came home early with blood on his shirt cuff.
He told me he had cut his hand opening a shipment.
When I asked to see the injury, he said it was nothing.
Then he threw the shirt into a black garbage bag and took it outside.
I was thirty-five.
I had already learned that asking too many questions could lead to a night I wouldn't survive.
So I said nothing.
Now Marianne sat across from me, listening as I described the shirt.
Her expression didn't change.
Perhaps she had heard enough terrible possibilities over the years that one more could no longer surprise her.
"Did Jason have a cut?" she asked.
"I never saw one."
"Did you see him throw away the shirt?"
"Yes."
She nodded slowly.
"We need to tell Rebecca."
We did.
Sloan didn't promise the detail would solve anything.
She asked for the date, the approximate time, and anything that might independently corroborate my memory.
I gave her what I could.
Then Marianne and I waited.
There was something strange about sitting beside someone whose grief had been shaped by the same man who shaped mine.
We didn't know each other well.
Our lives had taken different paths.
But we recognized the same silence.
The kind that follows a question nobody dares to answer.
At midnight, Marianne finally spoke.
"Eleanor used to say you were the best engineer she'd ever worked with."
I stared at her.
"She said that?"
"All the time."
I looked down.
"Jason told me she thought I was too emotional to lead the company."
Marianne shook her head.
"My sister said you were the only executive who checked the results when the numbers looked too perfect."
I smiled sadly.
"She used to get angry with me for being cautious."
"No."
"She got angry because you stopped trusting your own judgment."
Marianne reached across the table.
Then stopped before touching my hand.
She had noticed the way I reacted when people moved too quickly.
"May I?" she asked.
I nodded.
She rested her hand over mine.
For a few seconds, I allowed myself to feel the warmth.
Then I began to cry.
Not the quiet crying I had perfected during my marriage.
Not tears swallowed in bathrooms or hidden beneath running showers.
I cried because someone remembered who I had been before Jason convinced me I was nothing.
Marianne stayed until morning.
Daniel arranged a room for her in a nearby hotel.
Before leaving, she gave me a copy of Eleanor's photograph.
"Keep this," she said.
"Why?"
"Because my sister would want you to remember that somebody saw the truth long before the courtroom did."
After she left, I slept for three hours.
I woke to a call from Daniel.
"We need to discuss something difficult."
I sat upright.
"What happened?"
"Jason filed an emergency motion."
"About what?"
"He's asking the court to restrict use of certain medical evidence."
I laughed bitterly.
"Of course he is."
"He's also alleging that you've fabricated claims of abuse to influence the property division."
I looked toward the bedroom window.
For a moment, I felt myself slipping backward.
Jason had used that strategy before.
Whenever I confronted him about an injury, he claimed I was confused.
Whenever I asked about suspicious documents, he called me paranoid.
Whenever I said I wanted to leave, he suggested I needed psychiatric treatment.
He didn't merely deny the truth.
He attacked my ability to recognize it.
Daniel continued.
"He's attached a psychological evaluation."
My breath caught.
"What evaluation?"
"One supposedly conducted six years ago."
"I never agreed to one."
"That's part of the problem."
"Who signed it?"
Daniel paused.
"Dr. Nathaniel Reed."
I closed my eyes.
Even under protective supervision, Reed's old lies were still haunting me.
"What does the report say?"
"That you experienced memory disturbances and persecutory beliefs following your hospitalization."
I stared at the wall.
"He's trying to make the judge think I imagined everything."
"Yes."
"Will it work?"
"Not if we challenge its foundation and present the evidence."
I pressed my hand against my chest.
"What if people believe him?"
Daniel's voice softened.
"Iris, some people may."
I waited.
"But we don't need everyone to like you."
"We need the court to examine reliable evidence."
After the call, I sat on the edge of the bed and remembered the woman I used to be.
I had graduated near the top of my biomedical engineering program.
I had presented research at national conferences.
I had built the earliest quality-control system for our company with my own hands.
Then, over the years, Jason began correcting me in public.
He said I remembered meetings incorrectly.
He told employees I had difficulty managing stress.
He discouraged colleagues from consulting me directly.
Eventually, even I began second-guessing decisions I once made without hesitation.
That was his greatest achievement.
Not taking the house.
Not taking the company.
Taking my trust in myself.
At eleven, Sloan called.
"We need to ask you about a woman named Emily Stone."
I immediately sat forward.
"That was Sophie Price's name at Mitchell Medical."
"We know."
"Did you find her?"
"Not yet."
My heart sank.
"But we found evidence she maintained contact with someone inside the company after she supposedly disappeared."
"Who?"
Sloan hesitated.
"Your former executive assistant."
I frowned.
"Laura?"
"Laura Chen."
Laura had worked beside me for six years.
She knew my schedule.
She helped coordinate doctor appointments.
She brought me soup when I was sick.
Then Jason fired her, claiming she had stolen confidential documents.
I hadn't seen her since.
"Laura wasn't a thief," I said.
"We're aware that the allegation was never substantiated."
"Where is she?"
"Working at a medical nonprofit in Maryland."
"Can I speak to her?"
"She's already agreed to meet investigators."
Sloan paused.
"Iris, there's something you should know."
"What?"
"Laura says she tried to help you leave Jason."
I swallowed.
"When?"
"Several times."
I stared at the photograph of Eleanor on my nightstand.
"I don't remember."
"She says Jason intercepted her messages."
I closed my eyes.
Of course he had.
My husband managed my phone account.
He knew my passwords.
He monitored the people who visited our home.
He made sure every path toward freedom passed through him.
Sloan continued.
"Laura kept copies of several emails."
"What emails?"
"Messages you sent asking her to help you find a lawyer."
I felt my throat tighten.
I remembered writing one.
Late at night.
Sitting on the bathroom floor.
I think he's going to kill me.
I had deleted it after sending.
Laura never answered.
At least, that was what I believed.
Sloan's next words brought tears to my eyes.
"Laura replied to every message, Iris."
I covered my mouth.
"She gave you contact information for shelters, attorneys, and medical advocates."
"But those messages never reached you."
I couldn't speak.
Sloan waited.
Then she added, "There's one more thing."
"What?"
"Laura says she witnessed Jason threatening Dr. Reed."
I lowered my hand.
"When?"
"The afternoon before Reed approved your disputed medical report."
"What did Jason say?"
Sloan read from her notes.
"According to Laura, Jason told Reed, 'You helped me bury the first mistake. Don't make me bury another.'"
I stared ahead.
The first mistake.
Eleanor's death?
A patient incident?
Something else?
Before I could ask, Sloan continued.
"Laura also says Jason had a private meeting that afternoon."
"With whom?"
"An attorney and a senior executive."
"Do you know their names?"
"We have one confirmed."
I waited.
"Charles Whitcomb."
Jason's divorce attorney.
I felt the room spin.
Whitcomb hadn't merely entered the story when our marriage ended.
He had been there six years earlier.
When Jason took my voting rights.
When my medical history was distorted.
When documents bearing my forged signature entered the corporate records.
And now he was standing in court insisting that none of it had happened.
I drew a slow breath.
"Rebecca?"
"Yes?"
"Do you think Whitcomb knows?"
"We're investigating his role."
"But you think he might."
"That's possible."
After we ended the call, I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water.
My hand shook so badly that half of it spilled onto the counter.
Then my phone displayed another message.
This one came from an unfamiliar number.
Iris, it's Madison.
I need to talk to you without Jason knowing.
I stared at the screen.
A second message appeared.
He lied to me about everything.
Then a third.
May you like
I found a passport with Sophie's photograph.
But it has my name on it.
