Chapter 7: What Grace Already Knew
My friend Grace opened her door before I reached the top step.
She took one look at my face, at the mark on my cheek, at the way I was holding my arm, and she stepped back without a word to let me in.
Her apartment was warm.
It smelled like coffee and something baking.
She had the television on low in the other room — some nature documentary, something quiet and far away from everything.
She sat me down at her kitchen table and put a glass of water in front of me.
"Tell me," she said.
So I told her.
All of it.
The sl\*p.
The soup.
The ring on the table.
Harold and the envelope.
The photograph.
The bank account in my name.
Forty-three thousand dollars.
The collection proceedings.
Renata Voss and the lake house keys.
Grace listened without interrupting.
She had always been able to do that — hold the weight of something without flinching, without rushing to fill the silence.
When I finished, she was quiet for a moment.
"The account," she said.
"The one in your name."
"Yes."
"Emily." She set her hands flat on the table.
"I need to tell you something, and I need you to hear it without panicking."
I looked at her.
"Three months ago, you asked me to look over your credit report.
Do you remember?
You said something felt off.
A number that didn't match."
I remembered.
I had mentioned it once, briefly, and then let it go because Daniel had told me it was a reporting error and I had been too tired and too pregnant to push back.
"I pulled the full report," Grace said.
"I didn't tell you because I wasn't sure what I was looking at, and I didn't want to upset you without being certain." She stood, went to the small desk in the corner, and came back with a folder.
"There are three accounts, Emily.
Not one."
I stared at her.
"Three accounts opened in your name.
Different lenders.
Different addresses.
The one Harold found is the largest.
The other two are smaller — a store credit line and a personal overdraft — but they're both in collections." She opened the folder and turned it toward me.
"Combined total is just over sixty thousand dollars."
The number landed somewhere in my chest and sat there.
"He opened three accounts," I said.
"Over about eighteen months.
The first one was opened four months before your wedding."
Before the wedding.
I looked down at the folder.
My name, printed cleanly at the top of each page.
Addresses I had never lived at.
Signatures that were supposed to be mine.
"He planned this," I said.
"Before we were even married."
Grace didn't answer.
She didn't need to.
"I need to call an attorney," I said.
"Harold's attorney?"
"Harold gave me a card." I reached into my coat pocket.
"He said she was expecting my call."
"Then call her." Grace pushed her phone across the table.
"Use mine.
In case Daniel is tracking your number."
I looked at her.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I know that sounds extreme.
But you just told me what happened tonight, and I think we're past worrying about sounding extreme."
I picked up the phone.
I dialed the number on the card.
It rang twice.
"This is Margaret Holt." The voice was clear and direct.
No apology for the hour.
"My name is Emily Carr," I said.
"Harold Carr gave me your number."
"Emily." A brief pause.
"I've been waiting for your call.
Are you somewhere safe?"
"Yes."
"Good.
I need you to listen carefully, because there are some things you need to know before tomorrow morning." Another pause.
"Harold didn't tell you everything tonight.
He told you what you needed to hear to get through the evening.
But there's more.
And some of it concerns Daniel directly — and some of it concerns Patricia."
I looked at Grace across the table.
Grace was watching me.
May you like
She had heard the word *Patricia.*
"Tell me," I said.
