Chapter 2 - THE SUPERVISED RETRIEVAL
The drive back to the house was silent,
except for the rhythmic clicking of Rachel’s blinker.
I watched the suburban streets roll past,
noting how the trees seemed thinner,
the lawns less green,
and the sky more hollow than it had been this morning.
Scott’s black SUV was already in the driveway,
parked crookedly,
as if he could not wait to jump out and claim his kingdom.
We pulled up to the curb,
and Rachel killed the engine.
“Do you want me to come in?”
she asked.
“No,”
I said,
spotting the silver patrol car that Jerome had arranged.
An officer named Vance was already standing by the porch,
his arms crossed over his chest,
waiting for the authorized retrieval to begin.
I stepped out of the car,
the cool autumn air hitting my face like a slap.
The front door opened before I reached the steps.
Scott stood there,
wearing a new cashmere sweater I had not seen before,
holding a glass of scotch that was far too expensive for 4:00 PM.
“You’re late,”
he said,
his voice thick with a fake,
monumental authority.
“I told you six o’clock,
Avery.”
“The officer is here to ensure the process is peaceful,”
I replied,
my voice level.
“I am here for my belongings,
Scott.”
“Your belongings?”
he laughed,
the sound echoing in the high-ceilinged foyer.
“Your life was a gym bag on the counter.”
“Everything else in this house is mine now.”
I did not argue.
I walked past him,
the scent of his arrogance more pungent than the alcohol.
Officer Vance followed closely,
his boots thudding on the hardwood floors I had picked out.
I went straight to the master bedroom.
The bed was unmade.
A suitcase—a real one,
not a gym bag—was open on my side of the bed.
It was not full of my clothes.
It was full of his.
“I’m moving into the master suite,”
he called from the doorway.
“Evelyn’s money buys a lot of luxury,”
“and I’m starting with a new mattress.”
I ignored him and opened the walk-in closet.
I reached for the back corner,
moving the winter scarves,
and pulled out the shoebox.
The receipts were all there.
The evidence of every time I had carried him financially.
“What’s that?”
he demanded,
stepping into the room.
Officer Vance shifted his weight,
his hand resting near his belt.
“Sir,”
the officer said,
“please maintain a respectful distance.”
Scott scoffed,
but he stayed back.
“Keep your trash,
Avery.”
“I’m getting a decorator anyway.”
I began to pull my real suitcases from the top shelf.
I packed my professional suits.
I packed my books.
I packed the small ceramic bird my mother had given me.
Every movement was surgical.
I did not look at the wedding photos still hanging on the walls.
I did not look at the jewelry box he had given me for our third anniversary,
knowing the credit card charge for it had been declined and paid by me later.
“You’re going to regret leaving like this,”
Scott sneered.
“When I’m on the cover of the business journals,”
“you’ll just be another middle-manager at Hawthorne.”
I zipped the last bag.
I turned and looked him in the eye.
He saw nothing there.
No anger.
No regret.
Just the cold,
clear eyes of a director about to initiate a hostile takeover.
“I hope the house makes you happy,
Scott,”
I said.
I walked out,
the officer flanking me.
As I reached the driveway,
I saw a delivery truck arriving.
A new television.
A new sound system.
Scott was spending money he believed was already his.
He did not know the tap was about to be turned off.
I got into Rachel’s car,
and we drove away without looking back.
“He’s an idiot,”
Rachel said.
“He’s a man who has not read the fine print,”
I corrected.
“And in my world,”
“that’s the most expensive mistake you can make.”
We drove to a hotel near the office.
I checked in under my maiden name.
I sat on the edge of the bed and opened the shoebox.
I began to organize the receipts by year.
If Scott wanted a divorce,
he would get one.
But he would not get it on his terms.
He would get it on mine.
And my terms included every cent he had ever drained from me.
The "good faith" marriage clause was the hook.
The shoebox was the sinker.
And Scott was already swimming into the net.
I looked at the clock.
It was 6:00 PM.
Scott would be sitting in the house,
admiring his new electronics.
He would be feeling like a king.
I felt a strange sense of peace.
The siege had begun.
I picked up my phone and texted Jerome.
"I have the shoebox."
"Good,"
he replied.
"Get some sleep,
Avery."
"Tomorrow,
we file the freeze."
I lay back and closed my eyes.
For the first time in six years,
May you like
I did not have to worry about Scott’s timing.
The clock was finally ticking for me.
