She looked at it, then at me. “Speaker. And if Connecticut law worries you, don’t secretly record. Just take notes after. Better yet, tell him you’re putting him on speaker because you’re pregnant and tired.”
I answered.
“Henry.”
His voice came warm and smooth, the way expensive whiskey looks in a glass. “Celeste. I’ve been wanting to check on you.”
I nearly smiled at the audacity.
“That’s kind.”
“I mean it. This whole thing is painful for everyone.”
Everyone. Not you. Not my unborn daughter. Everyone.
I said nothing.
He filled the silence gracefully, which told me he had rehearsed.
“I just think,” he went on, “that when emotions run high, people can create narratives that don’t reflect the full picture. If this gets contentious, there may be testimony from firm events, dinners, holiday functions. I’d hate to see anyone misunderstood.”
Sandra’s pen stopped moving. Her eyes lifted to mine.
I kept my voice flat. “Misunderstood how?”
A pause. Tiny. Satisfied.
“Well, there were a few occasions over the years where you seemed… emotional. Overwhelmed. I do remember one Christmas party where you drank more than was wise and said some things that struck me as erratic. I’m sure it was stress.”