Chapter 6 - I did not call Ryan.
That surprised him.
I knew because he sent another message the next morning.
Did you read the letter?
I read it while standing inside an elevator with three employees.
Then I put my phone away.
At nine fifteen, Charles arrived at my office carrying a leather folder thick enough to damage someone if thrown correctly.
He dropped it on my desk.
“Before you ask, no.”
“No what?”
“No crimes have been charged. No arrest warrants exist. Nobody is hiding offshore.”
“Your standards for good news are disturbing.”
“They became that way because of your ex-husband.”
I sat.
“Tell me.”
Charles opened the folder.
The dispute involved a failed mixed-use development outside Murfreesboro called Hawthorne Commons.
I remembered the name vaguely.
Ryan had become involved about eight months after our divorce finalized.
He had joined a small development company run by two former business contacts, Daniel Pryce and Stephen Hale.
The project looked normal at first.
Apartments.
Retail.
Medical offices.
Then construction costs increased.
Interest rates changed.
A major tenant withdrew.
Financing became unstable.
None of that was unusual.
What happened afterward was.
“The bank claims financial information was manipulated during refinancing,” Charles said.
“By Ryan?”
“Possibly by Pryce.”
“Possibly?”
“Ryan signed some of the documents.”
I stared at him.
“There it is.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Charles.”
“Signing inaccurate documents is not automatically fraud if he did not know they were inaccurate.”
“And did he?”
“That is the question.”
I leaned back.
“What does he want from me?”
Charles removed three pages.
“At some point during negotiations, Pryce told the bank Ryan had been forced out of Vance Holdings because of financial misconduct.”
My expression hardened.
“That is false.”
“Yes.”
“Ryan resigned as part of the civil settlement.”
“Yes.”
“He wasn’t terminated for stealing.”
“Correct.”
“Some disputed payments were reimbursed.”
“Correct.”
“But we never accused him of criminal conduct.”
“Correct.”
I understood.
“He wants me to confirm that.”
“Yes.”
For several seconds, I said nothing.
The truth was uncomfortable because truth often refuses to organize itself around the people we dislike.
Ryan had betrayed me.
He had lied.
He had abused his authority.
He had allowed corporate funds to pay expenses that never should have touched company accounts.
But Charles was right.
Our settlement had been civil.
Confidential.
Complicated.
Some RHL payments had represented legitimate work.
Others had not.
Ryan had repaid money.
He had resigned.
But my company had never claimed he committed criminal fraud.
“What happens if I refuse?”
Charles gave me the look he used when he believed I already knew the answer.
“The record still exists.”
“So they can subpoena it.”
“They already are.”
“Then he doesn’t need me.”
“Legally? Probably not.”
“Personally?”
Charles closed the folder.
“That isn’t my department.”
“I pay you enough. It should be.”
“No amount of money makes me a therapist.”
“That sounds like poor customer service.”
He smiled.
Then the smile disappeared.
“There’s another issue.”
I sighed.
“Of course there is.”
“Joyce contacted my office.”
“No.”
“I didn’t say I spoke to her.”
“Good.”
“She left four messages.”
“Delete them.”
“Addison.”
“No.”
“She says it concerns Elliot.”
That stopped me.
I hated that it stopped me.
Not because I had anything against Elliot.
Exactly the opposite.
He was a child.
A child born into a disaster he had not created.
“What about him?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Norah call?”
“No.”
“Then Joyce can call Norah.”
Charles hesitated.
“You might want to hear the message.”
I looked at him.
“I really might not.”
He slid his phone across the desk.
I pressed play.
Joyce’s voice filled the office.
“Charles, this is Joyce Vance. I need Addison to call me. Ryan is having problems again. Norah is refusing to let Elliot stay with him, and Addison is the only person he listens to. I know she’s angry, but this is about a child. Tell her not to be selfish.”
The message ended.
I stared at the phone.
Charles waited.
“Remarkable,” I said finally.
“That was the fourth message.”
“The first three were worse?”
“The second suggested your father would be disappointed in you.”
I laughed.
My father had disliked Joyce with a quiet intensity he considered too polite to express while alive.
“I’m almost tempted to call just to explain the historical inaccuracy.”
“Please don’t.”
My amusement faded.
“What does ‘problems again’ mean?”
“I don’t know.”
I picked up my own phone.
There was one person who could answer.
Norah picked up on the third ring.
“Addison?”
We spoke perhaps twice a year.
Usually about legal documents connected to old settlements.
Never socially.
“Hi, Norah.”
“Is everything okay?”
“That depends.”
A pause.
“Joyce called your attorney.”
“So you know.”
“No. I know she claims something is happening with Ryan and Elliot.”
Norah exhaled.
“I told her not to involve you.”
“What happened?”
Another pause.
Then she said, “Ryan missed two custody weekends.”
That alone did not explain Joyce’s panic.
“Why?”
“He said work.”
“And you don’t believe him?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s drinking again.”
The room seemed quieter.
Ryan had told me outside the courthouse that he had been sober six months.
I had never known exactly how bad his drinking had become.
Apparently sobriety had not lasted.
Norah continued.
“He showed up last Saturday to pick up Elliot. I could smell alcohol.”
My jaw tightened.
“Did he drive?”
“Yes.”
“With Elliot?”
“I didn’t let him take him.”
“Good.”
“He got angry.”
“Did he threaten you?”
“No. Nothing like that. He kept insisting he was fine. Then he started crying in the driveway.”
I closed my eyes.
“Where is Elliot?”
“With me. He’s fine.”
That was all that mattered.
“Then what does Joyce want?”
“She wants me to let Ryan see him unsupervised because she says losing time with his son will make him worse.”
My eyes opened.
“Absolutely not.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Then why does she think I can change anything?”
“Because Ryan keeps talking about you.”
I became very still.
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. He says you were right about him. He says you saw this coming. He says if you tell everyone he isn’t dangerous, then maybe people will stop treating him like he is.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
The old instinct rose before I could stop it.
Find Ryan.
Understand.
Fix.
Control the damage.
For fifteen years, I had been excellent at that.
Then I remembered my kitchen the night before.
The letter on the counter.
I need you to tell the truth about me.
Maybe Ryan was not asking me to lie.
Maybe he wanted me to separate what he had actually done from what others were now claiming.
But if he was drinking and showing up to collect his son, there was another truth too.
“Norah,” I said, “do not let him drive Elliot anywhere.”
“I won’t.”
“If he becomes threatening, call the police.”
“I know.”
“And if Joyce pressures you—”
“She already does.”
“Then stop answering.”
Norah laughed weakly.
“You make that sound easy.”
“It gets easier with practice.”
There was silence.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For involving you again.”
“You didn’t.”
“But somehow you’re always standing near the crater after Ryan blows something up.”
I looked at the photograph on my desk.
Iris, Martin, my sister, and me at the opening of our newest office.
A life Ryan did not occupy.
“Not anymore,” I said.
After we hung up, I told Charles to provide any truthful documentation Ryan’s attorneys requested.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Then I returned to work.
At eleven, Nathan Mercer arrived unexpectedly.
I was reviewing budgets with Iris when she stepped into my office and said, “Your twelve o’clock is early.”
“I don’t have a twelve o’clock.”
“You do now.”
Nathan appeared behind her holding two coffees.
I looked at Iris.
She smiled.
Traitor.
“I’ll leave you two alone.”
“No need.”
She left anyway.
Nathan placed one coffee on my desk.
“What is this?”
“Coffee.”
“I can identify liquids.”
“Progress.”
“Why are you here?”
“The Belle Meade feasibility team is visiting the site.”
I froze slightly.
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And I thought you might want to come.”
“No.”
“Okay.”
He picked up his coffee.
That annoyed me.
“You’re not going to ask why?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because you said no.”
I stared at him.
“You’re infuriating.”
“I get that a lot.”
He turned toward the door.
“Nathan.”
He stopped.
“What time?”
“Twelve thirty.”
I looked at Iris through the glass wall.
She pretended not to be watching.
“I’ll meet you there.”
At twelve forty-six, my car turned through the Belle Meade gates.
I had not entered the property since the day before I sold it.
Three years.
The driveway seemed shorter.
The trees smaller.
Or maybe I had changed scale.
Nathan was standing near the gray front door with two architects and a structural engineer.
Nobody treated my arrival like a dramatic event.
I appreciated that.
We toured the house.
The Whitmores had changed more than the front door.
Different furniture.
Different lighting.
A wall removed between the kitchen and breakfast room.
The rose garden gone.
The walnut library remained.
I stopped inside it.
Empty shelves lined the walls.
Sunlight crossed the floor.
I remembered Ryan standing near the fireplace one Christmas, telling everyone the room had been his idea.
It had not.
My father and I designed it together.
Nathan entered behind me.
“Too much?”
“No.”
“You don’t have to stay.”
“I know.”
That was becoming something I liked hearing from him.
I walked toward the fireplace.
“What would this room become?”
“Probably a common area.”
“For families?”
“Yes.”
“Books?”
“If you want.”
“I do.”
He nodded.
“Then books.”
No argument.
No performance.
Just books.
My phone buzzed.
A text from a number I did not recognize.
Addison, it’s Joyce. Ryan is missing.
My chest tightened.
Another message arrived immediately.
His car was found outside a bar last night. Nobody has seen him since.
I stared at the screen.
Nathan did not ask.
I walked toward the window.
Three years earlier, Ryan’s disappearance would have become my emergency.
I would have called hospitals.
Friends.
Employees.
Hotels.
I would have solved it before anyone else finished panicking.
My hands remembered the role even if my life no longer did.
Then a third message appeared.
Please. Whatever you think of us, he was your husband for fifteen years.
I looked out across the lawn where a golden retriever had once run.
The grass was empty now.
And for the first time, I understood that refusing to rescue someone did not mean refusing to care whether they survived.
Those were different things.
I called Norah.
“Is Elliot with you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Then I called Charles.
“Ryan is missing.”
“I know.”
“What?”
“His attorney called ten minutes ago.”
“Has anyone filed a missing-person report?”
“Joyce did.”
“Then the police can find him.”
“That is currently the plan.”
I closed my eyes.
Nathan remained across the room, giving me space.
I did not know where Ryan was.
I did not know whether he was safe.
And I did not know whether the next decision I made would prove that I had finally learned how to protect my peace—or merely learned how to disguise fear as distance.
May you like
Then my phone rang.
Ryan.
