3: The Note

Delia Cross arrived on Wren's fourth day home, announced by the sound of heels on marble and a voice that carried down the hallway before its owner did.

"Where is she? Is she up? I swear to God, if nobody tells me anything in this family-"

She appeared in the doorway of the sitting room a moment later, younger than Nathaniel by several years, dark-haired, dressed with the same effortless expense as everything else in the house, and stopped dead the second she saw Wren sitting by the window.

"Oh my God." Delia's hand flew to her mouth. "You're actually-" She stopped herself, visibly recalibrating whatever sentence she'd been about to say, and crossed the room instead, pulling Wren into a hug so sudden and genuine that Wren stiffened out of pure surprise before something in her, some old muscle memory, softened into it.

"I'm sorry," Delia said, pulling back, eyes bright. "I know you don't…Nathaniel told me you don't remember me. This is so strange, you have no idea how strange this is."

"I have some idea," Wren said dryly.

Delia laughed, a real laugh, surprised out of her and something about the sound of it, easy and unguarded, made Wren like her instantly, memory or not.

"Right.....Of course, Sorry." Delia sat across from her, studying Wren's face with open curiosity. "I'm Delia. Nathaniel's sister. Which…okay, he told you that part, presumably."

"He mentioned a sister. Not much else."

"That tracks." Something flickered across Delia's expression there and gone, quick enough that Wren almost missed it. "He's not exactly the world's most forthcoming person, my brother."

"I'm noticing that, yes."

Delia's smile faltered slightly. "How much has he told you? About everything?"

"Almost nothing." Wren leaned forward, some old interrogative instinct sharpening beneath the polite conversation. "Which is starting to feel less like protecting me and more like something else."

Delia's gaze skittered briefly toward the doorway, checking, Wren realized, whether they were alone. "It's complicated," she said carefully. "There are reasons. Good reasons, I think, even if they don't feel that way right now."

"Everyone keeps telling me that. Nobody's telling me what the reasons actually are."

"That's not really my place to-"

"Delia." Wren kept her voice even, but let something firmer show underneath it. "Please, I woke up in a life I don't remember agreeing to. I'm not asking for state secrets, I'm asking for the truth about my own marriage."

Delia was quiet for a long moment, visibly torn, twisting a ring on her own finger in a way that suggested a nervous habit older than the current conversation.

"You weren't supposed to forget everything," she said finally, quiet, almost to herself. "That's the thing nobody's saying. This wasn't supposed to happen this way."

Wren went very still. "What way was it supposed to happen?"

Delia's eyes widened slightly, like she'd only just heard what she'd said out loud. "I didn't mean—"

"You did mean it. What way was it supposed to happen, Delia?"

The door opened before Delia could answer, and Nathaniel stepped into the room with the particular controlled energy of a man who had walked in expecting exactly this kind of conversation and was already three steps ahead of damage control.

"Delia." His voice was mild, but there was something underneath it, a warning Wren recognized even without knowing the history between them. "I didn't know you were coming by."

"I texted you an hour ago."

"I've been in meetings." His eyes flicked to Wren, assessing, before returning to his sister. "Can I speak with you for a moment?"

Delia stood, throwing Wren an apologetic look that carried more weight than the words that followed. "It was really good to see you," she said. "I mean that. I'll come back soon, okay? We'll talk more."

She let Nathaniel walk her into the hallway, and Wren heard the low murmur of a hushed, urgent conversation through the closed door too quiet to make out words, but tense enough in tone that she didn't need to.

“You weren't supposed to forget everything.” Wren turned the sentence over and over in her mind, looking for an interpretation that didn't unsettle her, and finding none.

*****

She waited until Nathaniel left for the office the next morning before she went looking.

Her own former study, on the second floor, had been cleared out with a thoroughness that struck her as strange the moment she stepped inside. No personal items. No half-finished work, no notes, no photographs, nothing that suggested a woman had actually used this room for three years. Just tasteful, impersonal furniture, like a hotel suite designed to look occupied without actually being lived in.

“Someone cleaned this out,”Wren thought, running a hand along the empty desk. “Recently and deliberately.”

She was about to leave when she noticed the closet barely visible, tucked behind a decorative panel that didn't quite match the wall's grain. She almost missed it. Some instinct made her press against it anyway, and it gave slightly under her palm, swinging open to reveal a narrow space holding a single cardboard box.

Her name was written on the side in handwriting she didn't recognize as her own and yet something about the shape of the letters made her stomach tighten anyway, a flicker of recognition too fast to hold onto.

Inside: a burner phone, dead, no charger. A stack of folded papers and tucked beneath everything else, a small handwritten note, the ink slightly smudged like it had been folded and unfolded many times before ending up here.

“Trust no one but yourself, not even him. Especially not him, if it comes to it.” Wren read it three times, her pulse climbing with each pass, before she registered the second line beneath it, written smaller, almost as an afterthought. “If you're reading this, something went wrong. Find the recording you'll know what to do.”

She stood frozen in the narrow closet for a long moment, the note trembling slightly in her hand, three years of silence pressing down on her all at once. “What recording?”

She confronted Nathaniel the moment he walked through the door that evening, the note still clutched in her hand, refusing to let herself lose her nerve.

"I found this." She held it up before he'd even fully crossed the threshold. "In my old study, in a box with a dead phone and a note telling me not to trust you."

Something in his face went very carefully, very deliberately still. "Where did you find that."

"Does it matter? I want to know what it means. I want to know why past-me apparently thought I'd need a warning about my own husband." Her voice cracked slightly, more emotion in it than she'd intended to show. "I want to know what ‘recording,’ Nathaniel."

He was quiet for a long moment, and Wren watched something shift behind his eyes the visible collapse of whatever careful strategy he'd been maintaining since the hospital, replaced by something rawer, more tired.

"There's more to this than I've told you," he said finally. "More than the accident. More than the marriage."

"I know that. I've known that since I woke up. I need you to actually tell me instead of just admitting it exists."

Nathaniel exhaled, long and slow, like a man setting down a weight he'd been carrying too long alone.

"Not everything I can explain tonight," he said, "but I can start."

For the first time since she'd woken in that hospital bed, Wren felt something shift in the balance between them not trust, not yet, but the first crack in the wall he'd built around whatever truth he'd been protecting her from.

"Then start," she said. "I'm listening."