4: What he Would say

"Before the accident," Nathaniel said, "you were working on a case. A big one, the kind that could have ended a career if it went wrong, or made one if it went right."

They were sitting in the study now, the note from the box between them on the low table like evidence in a trial neither of them had agreed to. Wren hadn't moved from the edge of the couch, every muscle coiled with the particular attention of someone afraid that shifting position might interrupt whatever momentum had finally cracked him open.

"What kind of case?"

"Financial fraud. Corporate malfeasance, on a scale most people don't believe is possible until they see the paperwork." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, and for the first time since she'd woken up, Wren saw something like real exhaustion in him not the careful, managed weariness of a man protecting a secret, but something closer to grief. "It involved a company that competes directly with mine. Voss Capital, Warrick Voss."

"Voss." She turned the name over, waiting for recognition that didn't come. "Why would I be building a case against your competitor?"

"Because you were good at your job, and because what you found should never have stayed buried." His jaw tightened. "You weren't working for me, Wren. You were working against the people who thought getting rid of the evidence was easier than facing what it proved."

"And you knew about this? Before we were married?"

"I knew some of it." He hesitated, and Wren recognized the shape of that hesitation now, not evasion exactly, but the careful math of a man deciding how much truth a person could hold at once. "Enough to know you were in more danger than you realized. Enough that when I offered you protection, marrying me wasn't really about romance, not at first."

The admission landed heavier than Wren expected, some old ache blooming in her chest that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with instinct.

"So it was strategic," she said quietly. "The marriage."

"It started that way." His eyes met hers, steady despite everything else about him looking worn thin. "It didn't stay that way but I understand if that's hard to believe, given everything else you're trying to process right now."

Wren sat with that for a long moment, turning it over from every angle she could manage. Some part of her ,the part that had apparently spent a career cross-examining people for a living wanted to push harder, wanted every detail laid bare immediately. But another part, quieter and more exhausted, recognized that he'd given her more in the last five minutes than in the four days since she'd woken up, and pushing too hard too fast might close the door again before it had fully opened.

"The recording," she said instead. "The note said to find it. What is it?"

Something shuttered behind his eyes, quick and involuntary. "I don't know," he said. "I didn't know you'd left one."

It was the first time she was fairly certain he was telling the truth about not knowing something, and somehow that made the omission around everything else feel heavier, not lighter.

"There's more you're not telling me," she said. Not a question.

"Yes." He didn't try to deny it. "There is but some of it isn't mine to tell yet, and some of it I need you to be stronger before you hear. I know that's not the answer you want."

"It isn't."

"I know." A ghost of something almost like a smile, sad around the edges. "You've told me that exact sentence before, in almost those exact words. You were furious with me for weeks."

Wren wanted to ask what had happened after that fury, how it had resolved, what bridge they'd built to get from that anger to a marriage, to the photograph on her nightstand of two people who looked genuinely happy but exhaustion was creeping back in, and some instinct told her this particular vein of the conversation had reached its limit for the night.

"I'm not going to stop asking," she said instead, echoing her own words from days earlier.

"I know that too," Nathaniel said. "I'm counting on it, actually."

*****

She went to the firm three days later, against his mild but unmistakable disapproval, in a car he insisted on arranging even though she'd have preferred to go alone.

Sinclair & Voss, no relation to Warrick, she'd been assured, an uncomfortable coincidence of surnames that made her stomach turn slightly every time she saw the letterhead occupied four floors of a glass tower downtown, all clean lines and hushed, expensive carpet. Wren stepped out of the elevator into the lobby and felt, for the first time since the hospital, something that might almost have been recognition not of any specific memory, but of the space itself, the particular quality of quiet that only existed in a building full of people billing by the hour.

The receptionist's eyes went wide the moment Wren gave her name.

"Oh my God. Ms. Sinclair. We…I mean, we heard about the accident, but nobody said—" She caught herself, visibly recalibrating. "I'll let Mr. Hayes know you're here."

Mr. Hayes, it turned out, was a managing partner Wren had no memory of, a tall silver-haired man who greeted her with the careful, over-warm enthusiasm of someone unsure what version of a difficult conversation he was about to have.

"Wren. It's well, it's remarkable to see you, honestly. We didn't know what to expect." He gestured her into his office, closing the door behind them with a care that felt deliberate. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused, mostly." Wren took the seat across from his desk, cataloguing details out of old habit even without the memories to contextualize them the awards on the wall, the careful neutrality of his expression, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the closed door like he was worried about being overheard. "I was hoping you could help with that. I understand I worked here."

"You did. For years, before—" He stopped himself.

"Before I left."

"Yes." Something uncomfortable passed over his face. "Rather abruptly, if I'm honest. No notice. No exit interview, Your office was cleared out within a week, and then we heard about the wedding, and we assumed you'd simply moved on to a different chapter."

"Was that unusual? For me?"

Hayes hesitated, and Wren recognized the particular shape of that hesitation now she'd seen it on Nathaniel's face, on Delia's, and now here, in a stranger's office three years removed from whatever version of herself had once worked here.

"Frankly? Yes," he admitted. "You were one of the most dedicated associates this firm has ever had. The Wren Sinclair I knew wouldn't have walked away from a case mid-litigation without a very good reason."

"What case?"

Something flickered across his expression caution, maybe, or something closer to fear. "I'm not sure that's information I'm authorized to discuss," he said carefully. "Given the sensitivities involved. You understand."

"I don't, actually. That's rather the problem."

Hayes offered an apologetic, uncomfortable smile that told her more than his actual words did. "There's someone who might be more forthcoming than I can be," he said instead. "Grant Halloway. He was your partner on the case before you left. I could have him reach out, if you'd like."

Wren felt something settle into place at the name not a memory exactly, nothing so clean as that, but a kind of instinctive pull, like the mention of him had disturbed something buried just beneath the surface of her missing years.

"Yes," she said. "Please."

She left the office twenty minutes later with more questions than she'd arrived with, and a growing, uneasy certainty that whatever she'd been building before the accident had frightened people enough to make an entire law firm nervous three years after the fact.

Her phone buzzed before she'd even reached the car.

“Unknown number: Wren. I heard you were asking questions. We should talk somewhere Nathaniel isn't listening.”

Wren stared at the message for a long moment, pulse climbing, before she typed back a single word.

“Where?”

The reply came fast, like he’d been waiting somewhere he won’t think to look. “Tomorrow. I’ll send the address. Come alone Wren, for both our sakes.”

She stared at the message, thumb hovering over the screen, torn between two instincts she didn’t fully trust yet: the pull to tell Nathaniel everything, and the sharper, older pull to trust no one at all until she had answers of her own.

She saved the number without replying again.

Whatever Grant Halloway knew, she was going to hear it with or without her husband’s permission.