Laura called me two days after my meeting with Alex.
I was in the kitchen sorting through the papers I had collected.
The folder was open on the table.
The old coffee mug stood beside the sink.
I had begun to associate both objects with the questions I couldn't yet answer.
I picked up the phone.
"Hello?"
"Emma, I wanted to update you on the next steps regarding the document."
I sat down.
"Have you learned anything?"
"I've reviewed the additional records you provided."
I waited.
Laura explained that the messages helped establish the circumstances in which Alex had requested my personal information.
They did not, by themselves, establish who had signed or submitted the document.
I nodded, although she couldn't see me.
"Is there anything else I should provide?"
She asked whether I had any original documents bearing my signature from around the same period.
I told her I had several.
She said I could bring them to the next appointment.
She also reminded me not to alter the documents or attempt to compare handwriting as though that would settle the issue.
The appropriate examination would need to be carried out properly.
I agreed.
Then I asked the question that had been bothering me since the restaurant.
"Does the document mean I owe money?"
Laura paused before answering.
"We need to establish what the document is, whether it is valid, and what effect it could have. I don't want to give you a definite answer before those questions are resolved."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"All right."
"I know uncertainty is difficult."
"It is."
"But you are doing the right thing by asking for clarification and preserving the records."
I thanked her.
After the call, I placed the phone on the table.
I wanted to feel relieved.
Instead, I felt suspended between two possibilities.
The document might turn out to be a mistake.
It might have been prepared or handled incorrectly by someone whose identity I didn't yet know.
Or it might reveal something more serious.
I couldn't choose the explanation I preferred and call it the truth.
I opened my notebook and wrote down Laura's instructions.
Then I placed the notebook beside the folder.
For several minutes, I sat without moving.
I thought about Nicholas Vance.
He had known that something was coming before the officers entered the restaurant.
He had told me to wait.
He had said the kiss wasn't the worst part of the evening.
But he hadn't explained how he knew.
I had been so focused on the document that I hadn't yet asked him directly.
I found the card he had given me.
Nicholas Vance.
The blank back.
The absence of a company name or telephone number.
I turned it over in my hand.
Then I remembered that I had seen him leave the restaurant after the woman in black approached my table.
I had never received a way to contact him.
I considered trying to find him online, but I decided against making assumptions based on a name alone.
If he wanted to explain his role, he could do so through an appropriate channel.
I put the card in the folder.
Later that afternoon, Alex called.
I answered because I wanted to know whether he had any information relevant to the document.
"Emma."
"Hi."
"Have you heard anything from the lawyer?"
I looked at the folder.
"She's reviewing the records."
He exhaled.
"Has she told you what it means?"
"Not yet."
There was a pause.
Then he asked whether I had given her the messages from our conversations.
I felt my shoulders tighten.
"Yes."
"Which messages?"
"The ones relevant to the document."
He was quiet.
"Why would you give her private conversations?"
"Because they show when you asked me for my identification."
"They were between us."
"And the document has my name on it."
He didn't respond.
I could hear faint noise in the background.
Perhaps he was at work.
Perhaps he was somewhere else.
I no longer tried to guess.
"Emma," he said finally, "I need you to be careful about what you tell people."
I closed the notebook.
"I've told the lawyer what I remember and provided the records she asked for."
"You know what I mean."
"No, Alex. I don't."
He sighed.
"This could affect more than just us."
I felt a chill move through me.
"What does that mean?"
He didn't answer immediately.
Then he said that the matter involved other people and that careless statements could cause problems.
I asked him who the other people were.
He said he wasn't going to discuss that over the phone.
I asked whether he could provide the names to Laura.
He said he would have to think about it.
I was beginning to recognize that phrase as a way to end conversations without answering the question.
"Alex, if you have information that could explain the document, you need to provide it through the proper process."
He sounded frustrated.
"You make everything sound so formal."
I looked at the wedding ring in its small dish.
"You made it formal when a document appeared with my name on it."
He fell silent.
I waited.
Then he said he had to go.
I ended the call without arguing.
My hands were shaking.
I placed them flat on the table until they stopped.
I wasn't sure whether Alex's warning meant he was frightened, defensive, or simply unwilling to answer questions.
I wasn't going to decide.
I wrote down what he had said as accurately as I could remember.
I included the date and time.
Then I sent Laura a brief message asking whether I should preserve the call details in my records.
She advised me to keep a note of the conversation and not to draw conclusions from his wording alone.
I thanked her.
That evening, I sat by the window with a cup of tea.
The city lights reflected in the glass.
I thought about the woman in the booth.
I still didn't know her name.
I thought about the child she was carrying.
I thought about Alex's proposal and the way the officers had changed the atmosphere in the restaurant.
I thought about the red letters on the folder.
EMMA CARTER.
My name had been the one thing connecting every part of that evening.
The anniversary.
The marriage.
The document.
The questions.
I had spent years thinking that sharing a name with my husband meant we were building the same future.
Now I understood that sharing a name also meant I needed to know exactly where it was being used.
I finished my tea.
Then I placed the cup in the sink and returned to the folder.
I checked that the records were in order.
I confirmed the appointment details for my next meeting with Laura.
I put the folder away.
I still didn't know who had signed the document.
I still didn't know what Alex had known before that night.
And I still didn't know why Nicholas had been waiting beside me when my husband opened the ring box.
Those questions remained unanswered.
But I was no longer trying to solve them by watching Alex's face and hoping he would finally tell me the truth.
I would wait for the records to speak for themselves.
Click here to continue reading: PART 17: The Answer I Had Been Waiting For Finally Arrived, but It Forced Me to Separate What I Knew About Alex From What I Had Feared
My Husband Sent Me an Anniversary Message While Sitting Close Enough for Me to See the Woman He Had Chosen Instead
Part 16 of 20
