“There’s more,” he added. “The forensic accountant believes Grant has been using joint household accounts to support the affair, and there are discrepancies in a business investment presentation tied to your family assets. I didn’t want to bury you in everything today.”
The laugh that came out of me sounded thin and tired. “A thoughtful choice, given the funeral fireworks.”
“I try to pace trauma.”
That got a real laugh, brief as it was.
Then he said, gentler, “Natalie, your father knew this would be painful. He also knew that clarity is often cruel at first.”
After I hung up, I sat in that room until the light changed from gold to amber. Then I opened the other things from the safe.
The ring of keys had a faded leather tag attached to it.
Carmel cottage.
There was a deed in my name, dated last month, and a folded sticky note in Dad’s handwriting: For when you need quiet. The sunrise is spectacular.
My vision blurred all over again.
Under the keys was a small flash drive. I plugged it into Dad’s old laptop and found three files: scanned property documents, a recording of my father speaking from hospice, and a voicemail export labeled Dress.
I clicked that one first.
A woman’s voice filled the room. One of our housekeepers.
“Mrs. Morrison, I wanted to let you know Ms. Rebecca from your husband’s office stopped by Thursday while you were at the hospital. Mr. Morrison let her in to pick up some paperwork. I saw her leave with a navy garment bag. I thought maybe you knew, but then I remembered your blue dress was in your closet last week, so I wanted to mention it. Sorry if I’m mistaken.”
I sat there very still while the message ended.
He let her into my house.
Into my closet.
Into the room where I’d cried after Dad’s first surgery and the room where Grant had once stood behind me fastening that same dress while kissing the back of my neck.
Something inside me hardened so cleanly it almost felt like relief.
Upstairs, I heard a drawer slam. Then another. Grant, packing or pretending to.
I looked at the cottage deed again.
I could stay here and spend the night listening to him move around my house like a man who still had rights. Or I could leave him with silence, lawyers, and the exact weight of what he’d done.
I went to our bedroom, pulled a suitcase from the closet, and started packing.
Halfway through, my phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number.