Her voice immediately turned flat and cold. “You mean the wife you left home alone with a newborn while you were never there?”
“I asked you a question.” “And I asked you one back. Ever looked in a mirror lately, Daniel?”
My jaw tightened. “She emptied our accounts and disappeared with my son.”
“Our accounts?” Susan snapped. “She worked sixty-hour weeks before that baby came.
Every dollar in there, she earned twice over. No, she isn’t here. But if she finally walked out on you — I can’t say I’m surprised.
I’m just glad it took her this long.” The line went dead before I could answer.
I stood alone in that silent kitchen, furious and somehow cornered by my own house.
Emma wasn’t supposed to leave. She apologized to strangers who bumped into her.
She smiled when I forgot our anniversary two years in a row. She cleaned up after me without saying a word, never pushed back when I worked late again, never once asked why I looked at my phone more often than I looked at my own son.
At least, that was the story I’d been telling myself. I called my attorney, Michael Torres.
“I need emergency custody papers,” I said. He didn’t answer immediately.
When he finally did, it was with one question. “Where were you last night?”
“Philadelphia. Client dinner.” The lie slipped out so easily I almost believed it myself.
It didn’t survive the afternoon. Detective Lawson called around three.
“Mr. Mercer,” he said, calm as a man reading a weather report, “your credit card tells a different story than you do.”
