Chapter 4 - The Empty Elm Street House
The house on Elm Street was entirely too quiet when I unlocked the front door late that afternoon.
The casseroles were still wrapped in foil on the kitchen counter, untouched and cooling into grease. The small American flag on the front porch still snapped softly in the winter wind. But the air inside felt different—lighter, cleaner, as though the oxygen had finally returned now that the rot had been cleared out.
I walked upstairs to our bedroom—my bedroom now.
Grant’s side of the walk-in closet was already half-empty, the hangers swaying slightly from his hurried exit thirty minutes earlier. He had taken his suits, his golf clubs, and his safe-deposit box key. But left behind on the top shelf was a small, locked leather lockbox he thought I didn't know about.
I didn't need a key. My father had taught me years ago that cheap brass locks yield easily to a flathead screwdriver and a steady wrist.
Two minutes later, the lid popped open.
Inside weren't financial documents or architectural blueprints. There was a thick stack of printed text messages, hotel receipts dating back eighteen months, and a folded medical bill from a private clinic in downtown Austin bearing Rebecca Thornton’s name—and an ultrasound photo dated November third.
I stared at the grainy black-and-white image of a tiny heartbeat, the edges curling slightly around the corners.
Fifteen years of marriage. No children. Not because we couldn't, but because Grant had always insisted the timing wasn't right, that his firm needed stability, that we weren't ready for the disruption.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand.
It was an unknown number, but the area code was local. I swiped and answered.
“Natalie?” a woman’s voice whispered on the other end, trembling and thin.
“Who is this?” I asked, leaning against the edge of the dresser.
“My name is Sarah. I live over on Maple Avenue. I... I saw what happened at the church today. And I think there’s something you need to know about Grant and Rebecca that wasn't in your father’s file.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. “What kind of something?”
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“It’s not just about the firm, Natalie,” Sarah said, her breath catching. “Rebecca didn't just stumble into Grant’s life six months ago. She was his assistant when you funded his startup with your inheritance. And the baby she’s carrying... well, let’s just say Grant isn't the only partner at Foster & Vance who has been sharing an apartment with her.”
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