Chapter 23 - The Call at Two in the Morning
Emma Loretta was six months old when Lucas called again at 2:13 a.m.
This time I laughed before answering.
“What now?”
“She has a fever.”
My chest tightened.
“Hospital?”
“Already going.”
Eli drove us.
Not because I could not.
Because he said:
“You look worried.”
At pediatric ER, fever viral.
Nothing serious.
We waited.
Lucas said:
“You know you don’t have to come every time I call at two.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I can.”
That was the answer.
Years earlier, Gavin took keys.
Now I chose.
Then niece slept.
Lucas asked:
“Do you ever think about forgiving him?”
Gavin.
“I think I have.”
He stared.
“You have?”
“Forgiving doesn’t mean talking.”
“Does Harriet know?”
“I don’t owe announcements.”
Then:
“What does it mean?”
I thought.
“I don’t want anything bad to happen to them anymore.”
Lucas nodded.
That was enough.
I did not wish Gavin ruined forever.
He had served.
Paid.
Lost marriage.
Changed maybe.
His future was his.
Then an unexpected email.
From Gavin.
First in years.
Subject:
Loretta’s recorder.
My body went still.
No protective order now, but still.
I opened with Eli beside me.
Gavin wrote:
I found something while cleaning an old cloud account. It belongs to you.
Attachment metadata only.
He did not attach actual without asking.
Description:
Audio file from Loretta recorder copied to my laptop the night she died.
What?
Why did Gavin have copy?
He had found recorder? But Lucas found physical. Maybe when visiting Loretta Tuesday, recorder was on table and he later synced? No. Could be Mom emailed? Need plausible.
Maybe Gavin's phone auto-recorded? Hmm.
Better not introduce a new secret. Could be the 17 minute recording we already have, copied during evidence discovery to defense. He now had a duplicate, not new. So not meaningful. Let's not.
Instead email about old photos from our marriage. He asks whether Samantha wants them before deletion. That's normal closure.
Subject:
Photos.
He had old cloud album.
Wedding.
Dog.
Trips.
He would delete account, wanted to offer copies through secure link.
No hidden message.
I thought.
Some photos I wanted.
Because good years were mine too.
I asked Dana? No need, legal closed.
I replied:
Send link. No further contact needed.
He did.
No personal message.
I downloaded:
Dog.
Mom at one Thanksgiving.
Lucas drunk at barbecue.
A photo of me laughing in kitchen.
Not Gavin? Some with him too.
I kept a few.
Deleted others.
Trauma did not own history.
Then one photo:
Mom and Gavin standing at Apex.
When?
Four years before death.
Gavin smiling.
Mom holding sandwich.
She did not always hate him.
That made me sad.
People change.
Or reveal.
Maybe both.
On back? digital caption:
Gavin says land will be warehouses someday.
Mom:
Over my dead body.
I froze.
It was a joke.
Old family joke.
Now terrible.
I did not turn it into evidence.
No conspiracy.
Mom said phrases.
Life gave them weight later.
I closed.
Then I wrote Gavin one final reply:
I got the photos. Thank you.
He responded:
You’re welcome.
That was our last contact.
Then I changed email filter.
Not block from rage.
Just no need.
Then Eli and I bought shared home.
We kept my townhouse as rental? Could sell. I sold it.
Proceeds mine per prenup, used partly toward shared home with documented contribution.
Transparent.
Under stairs?
New house had none.
Eli joked:
“Deal breaker?”
“Maybe.”
We chose ranch style.
No stairs at all.
I laughed.
Then we brought cedar dresser.
Mom’s recipe book.
Photo.
Home.
Then at Apex, road strip acquired.
County paid.
I used compensation to repair creek erosion and build second bench.
One for Lucas.
He protested:
“I’m not dead.”
“Bench isn’t memorial.”
“Good.”
We sat.
Emma between us.
She threw rocks.
May you like
History repeated better.
Continue to the next part: Samantha and Gavin exchange their final ordinary messages without reopening the relationship, allowing the good memories of her old life to exist without dragging her back into it.
