By four that afternoon, the ballroom was empty.
My brother handled the guests.
Michael contacted a former colleague who advised Emily to preserve every message, original recording, file, and document exactly as it was.
I stayed at Sarah’s house.
Rebecca called forty-three times.
I counted.
She sent twenty-six messages.
At first, they were angry.
*You humiliated me.*
Then came denial.
*Emily is manipulating you.*
Then affection.
*Daniel, please. We love each other. Let me explain.*
Then accusation.
*Your daughter has hated me from the beginning.*
Finally came fear.
*Do not send those files to anyone. They’re private.*
That last message told me more than everything else combined.
At 6:15, Michael sat across from me at Sarah’s kitchen table.
“What do you want to do about your belongings at Rebecca’s apartment?”
I had very little there.
A few suits.
Golf clubs.
Toiletries.
Some photographs.
“Forget them for now.”
“Good.”
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