What He Knew

Drake called from a number she didn't recognize. She didn't answer. He left a voicemail, which was a violation, which was the point — she was building a record, and he was either angry enough not to care or arrogant enough to think the court wouldn't act.

She listened to the voicemail once. His voice, which she knew better than her own: controlled, the way it got when he was calculating how to sound reasonable.

Liza, I don't know what you think is happening here, but you need to talk to me before this goes any further. Call me back.

She forwarded it to Aaron. She made a note in her evidence log. Date, time, number, content. She had a spreadsheet. She had a system.

Gavin came over on Thursday with groceries, which was what he did — arrived with food and didn't make it weird. He'd been doing this since September, since the night she'd called him from the parking lot of a gas station in a town she didn't live in anymore.

"Myrna says hi," he said, referring to his wife, which meant Myrna had sent him with a message, which meant Myrna was worried, which was why Gavin had arrived with groceries instead of a phone call.

"Tell Myrna I'm fine."

"Liza."

"I'm fine. I'm going to court in March and I'm building a record and I'm not dying, Gavin. I just want to get through this."

He looked at her the way he used to look at her in the kitchen of the house on Linden Street when they were kids and she'd gotten herself into something she couldn't explain.

"I know you do," he said.

She was fine. She had a system.