Chapter 9

#Rhett

Friday came and went, and Aveline did not come home.

I told myself it was fine. She was proud. She was staying at a hotel to teach me a lesson, and on Monday she would walk in and ask for an apology. I had already picked out the necklace. It sat in its box on my desk, and every morning I moved it a little to the side so I would not have to look at it.

On Tuesday, I stopped lying to myself.

I called every hotel in the city and gave her name. I called her old friends, the few she still had, and each one said they had not heard from her in years. I realized I did not know who her friends were. I did not know where she liked to go when she was upset. After eight years, I did not know one single place she would run to.

On Wednesday, the police called back. A sedan matching her license plate had been in a crash on the highway the night she left. The car was a wreck at a tow yard. A canvas bag with some sweaters and a passport was inside.

"And Aveline?" My voice did not sound like mine. "Where is my wife?"

"The driver was taken to a hospital by ambulance, sir. That is all I can tell you. The hospital says the file is private."

"Which hospital?"

"I'm sorry. They would not say."

I put the phone down very slowly. Her passport was in a police bag. I had thought of her walking out into the rain with nothing, but I had never once thought of her hurt.

I walked into the foyer without knowing why. It was late, and the house was quiet. Celine was upstairs with Lyra. The maid had cleaned everything, and the marble shone under the lamp.

Then I saw it. A white corner, sticking out from under the console table.

I had kicked it there that night. I remembered the exact feel of my shoe against the paper. I had told myself she was putting on a show.

I knelt down and pulled it out. It was creased from her hand. At the top was the name of a clinic I had never heard of, and under it, in black letters:

Advanced Malignant Carcinoma. Stage IV.

I read it three times. Then I read the last line, and the room went very quiet.

Estimated survival: six months.

The date at the top was the day she stood on the stairs and asked me for five minutes.

I sat down on the cold floor. I could hear my own voice from that night, as clearly as if I were still standing there. I don't care if you're sick. I don't care if you die. I had said that to a woman holding a paper that said she was dying. I had said it in front of my daughter.

She had been telling the truth. She had been telling the truth, and I had called it a show.

"Rhett?"

Celine stood on the stairs in her silk robe, one hand on her stomach. She looked at the paper in my hand, and for a second her face did something I could not read.

"What is that?"

"It's from Aveline." My throat hurt. "She was sick. She was really sick."

"Darling." She came down and put a soft hand on my shoulder. "You don't know that. She said it to scare you. Anyone can print a paper."

"It has the clinic's name on it."

"Then she paid someone. You know how she gets when she wants attention." Her voice was gentle. It was always gentle. "Please don't do this to yourself. Not now, not with the baby."

I looked at her hand on my shoulder. I had felt comfort in that hand for months. Now it just felt heavy.

"She has six months," I said. "That was a week ago."

Celine said nothing.

Then I noticed that someone else was in the hall. Lyra stood at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, holding her old stuffed rabbit by one ear. She was looking at the paper in my hand.

"Daddy," she said, in a very small voice. "Is Mommy dead?"

I could not answer her. I could not even stand up.

"She is not your mommy," Celine said quickly. "Go back to bed, sweetheart."

Lyra did not move. She looked at me, and for the first time in months, she did not look like a child who was trying to say the right thing. She looked like a child who was afraid.

"I said I didn't want her," she whispered. "I said it a lot."

Then she ran back to her room.

I stood up with the paper in my hand. My knees were shaking. I took out my phone and called the head of my security team, who picked up on the second ring, even at this hour.

"Find the hospital that took in the driver of that crash," I said. "Find which one. I don't care what it costs, and I don't care who owns it."

"Yes, sir. And if they won't talk?"

I looked at the necklace box on the hall table, where I had left it for her.

"Then find someone who will."