Not by intent.
By absence.
By arrogance.
By assuming the danger would look obvious if it were real.
At 12:37 a.m., his divorce attorney, Thomas Whitaker, called back.
“I understand there’s been an incident,” Tom said carefully.
“There’s been a crime.”
Tom was silent. “What do you need?”
“File everything.”
“Restraining order?”
“Yes.”
“Exclusive possession of the residence?”
“Yes.”
“Emergency protective action regarding the child?”
“Yes.”
“And Harrison,” Tom said, lowering his voice, “you know this is going to become public if charges are filed.”
Harrison looked through the glass at Emma sleeping in the dim hospital room.
“I don’t care.”
Tom knew him well enough to hear that this was not anger talking. It was finality.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll meet you at eight.”
After the call, Harrison sat beside Emma’s bed until dawn.
At one point she stirred and mumbled something in her sleep.
He bent close.
“Don’t lock it,” she whispered.
He felt his throat close.
When the first pale light of morning reached the window, Harrison made a vow without speaking it aloud.
No assistant would schedule around this.
No board would outrank this.
No money would excuse this.
Whoever he had been before 10:17 that morning was finished.
The Locked Wing
By Friday afternoon, the Sheridan Road house no longer belonged to Vanessa’s illusion.
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