Chapter 2 - The Number“Why would you ask me that?”
Mark looked up sharply.
“Ask what?”
“You didn’t ask who called. You didn’t ask whether Evan was okay. You asked what the caller said.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
Rachel, calm down.
Those two words nearly made me laugh.
People usually tell you to calm down when your reaction has become inconvenient for them.
“My eight-year-old came out of school believing his mother had announced she didn’t want him anymore. I’m perfectly calm considering the circumstances.”
Mark glanced toward the living room.
“Keep your voice down.”
That irritated me even more.
“Why?”
“Because Evan is right there.”
“Exactly.”
I moved closer.
“So start explaining.”
Mark picked up the sticky note again.
“Harrison Development has thirty-seven employees. Anybody could’ve used an office phone.”
“Anybody knew Evan’s student ID?”
He froze.
I watched him carefully.
“How did you know the caller had his student ID?”
“I assumed.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Mark’s jaw tightened.
“You’re turning this into something it isn’t.”
“Then tell me what it is.”
He walked toward the sink.
“Probably a stupid prank.”
“By someone at your company?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pretending to be your wife?”
“I said I don’t know.”
“And telling our son’s school that he wasn’t mine?”
His shoulders stiffened.
“Rachel.”
“No. Don’t ‘Rachel’ me.”
He turned.
For the first time, anger flashed across his face.
“I had a fourteen-hour day. I don’t need an interrogation the second I walk through the door.”
That sentence told me something.
The old Rachel might have apologized.
She might have wondered whether she was being unreasonable.
Eleven years of marriage teaches you another person’s rhythms.
It can also teach you to ignore your own instincts.
I wasn’t doing that anymore.
“Fine,” I said.
Mark blinked.
“Fine?”
“I’ll handle it myself.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means tomorrow morning I’ll ask the school for the exact time of the call, then I’ll ask your office manager who was in the building.”
His expression tightened.
“You’re going to embarrass me at work over this?”
“Our son was humiliated at school.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
He had no answer.
From the living room, Evan called, “Mom?”
My anger disappeared instantly.
I walked away.
Evan was sitting cross-legged on the couch.
“Can I sleep in your room tonight?”
I sat beside him.
“Of course.”
“Is Dad mad?”
“No, sweetheart.”
He looked toward the kitchen.
“He sounds mad.”
I pulled him against me.
“Adults sometimes get upset when confusing things happen. None of this is because of you.”
He stared at his hands.
“Mrs. Collins asked if I knew who my real mom was.”
My heart cracked.
“What did you tell her?”
“I said you.”
“Good.”
“But then I thought maybe there was another one.”
I swallowed.
There are moments when parenting means controlling your face because your child is using it to decide whether the world is safe.
So I smiled.
“There isn’t another mom waiting somewhere to replace me. I’m your mother. Always.”
“Even if somebody says I’m not?”
“Especially then.”
Evan hugged me.
Over his shoulder, I saw Mark standing in the kitchen doorway.
Watching.
He looked guilty.
But guilt has different causes.
Sometimes people feel guilty because they did something terrible.
Sometimes they feel guilty because they know something terrible is coming.
I needed to know which kind this was.
The next morning, I dropped Evan at school and walked directly to the administrative office.
Principal Mercer already had the phone records waiting.
The call had arrived Tuesday at 2:17 p.m.
Duration: eight minutes, forty-three seconds.
The caller had identified herself as Rachel Harrison.
She’d known my cellphone number, home address, Evan’s pediatrician, his allergy medication and the nickname his grandfather used for him when he was little.
“Peanut.”
Only family knew that.
“What else?” I asked.
Principal Mercer hesitated.
“Mrs. Harrison—”
“Please.”
She opened her notebook.
“The caller said there might soon be a custody dispute.”
I went still.
“What?”
“She claimed Evan had become emotionally dependent on you because you’d misrepresented your relationship.”
“That doesn’t even make sense.”
“I agree.”
“She said anything else?”
Principal Mercer turned a page.
“She asked whether a parent could request copies of counseling records.”
A cold sensation moved through my chest.
“Which parent?”
“She didn’t specify.”
I stared at the notebook.
This wasn’t random cruelty.
Someone was creating paperwork.
A record.
A narrative.
Why?
At 9:30, I drove to Harrison Development.
I had visited Mark’s office dozens of times.
The receptionist, Chloe, smiled when I entered.
“Rachel! Hey.”
“Is Denise here?”
Denise Palmer had been Mark’s office manager for twelve years.
She appeared from the hallway carrying folders.
“Rachel?”
“I need a favor.”
Her smile faded when she saw my expression.
Five minutes later we were inside the conference room.
I gave her the timestamp.
“Can you tell which phone made an outside call at 2:17 Tuesday?”
Denise frowned.
“We have extensions logged through the VoIP system.”
She opened her laptop.
“What happened?”
“Someone called Evan’s school.”
Her fingers stopped.
“From here?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
She logged in.
I waited.
Then Denise’s face changed.
“Oh.”
“What?”
She rotated the screen.
The outgoing call had not come from reception.
Not accounting.
Not the break room.
Extension 204.
Mark’s private office.
I stared at it.
“Was Mark here Tuesday afternoon?”
Denise hesitated.
That hesitation was becoming a familiar kind of terror.
“Denise.”
“He left around one-thirty.”
“Who had access to his office?”
She lowered her voice.
“Mark usually locks it.”
“Usually?”
“There’s one person he lets use it.”
“Who?”
Denise looked toward the closed conference-room door.
Then at me.
“Rachel, I don’t want to get involved in your marriage.”
My stomach dropped.
“What does that mean?”
She shut the laptop.
“Her name is Vanessa Cole.”
I had never heard that name.
“Who is she?”
Denise looked genuinely sorry.
“She’s not an employee.”
“Then why does she use my husband’s private office?”
Denise said nothing.
She didn’t need to.
I stood.
My legs felt weak.
“Tell me.”
“She’s been coming here for about eight months.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“That’s not true.”
“Rachel—”
“Please.”
Denise exhaled.
“They have lunch together. Meetings. Sometimes she arrives after everyone else leaves.”
I stared at her.
“Is he sleeping with her?”
“I don’t know.”
But her face did.
The betrayal hurt.
Yet somehow it wasn’t the worst thing I had heard that morning.
“Was Vanessa here Tuesday at 2:17?”
Denise checked the security log.
Then she whispered:
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them, Denise was still looking at the screen.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“She signed in at 1:52.”
“And left?”
“Three twenty-six.”
Exactly long enough to make the call.
I photographed the screen.
Then my phone rang.
It was the school.
“Mrs. Harrison?”
Principal Mercer sounded frightened.
“Yes?”
“We need you to come back.”
“What happened?”
“There was another call.”
I gripped the phone.
“From whom?”
“This one wasn’t pretending to be you.”
My heart started pounding.
“Who was it?”
“Your husband.”
I looked toward Mark’s empty office.
“What did he want?”
Principal Mercer took a breath.
“He asked us to delete the record of yesterday’s call.”
That afternoon, I stopped wondering whether Mark knew what was happening.
He knew.
May you like
The only question left was why.
And why a woman named Vanessa Cole was helping him convince strangers that my child didn’t belong to me.
Related Stories
