For one ugly second, I had to grip the back of the chair before sitting because the sight of it felt like being slapped with my own timeline.
“I know you don’t owe me this,” she said.
“You’re right.”
She nodded once, accepting it.
The coffee shop smelled like espresso and cinnamon syrup. Someone at the next table was interviewing for a job. Outside, sleet had turned to a wet gray drizzle that streaked the windows.
Brooke wrapped both hands around her cup but didn’t drink.
“Nathan told me your marriage had been over for a long time,” she said. “I believed him.”
I laughed once, short and sharp. “Of course he did.”
“I’m not asking you to forgive me.”
“Good.”
She exhaled. “I ended things with him last week.”
That surprised me enough that I looked up fully.
“Why?”
“Because I found out about the money. And because…” She hesitated. “Because I heard him on the phone talking about your daughter like she was part of a positioning strategy.”
I said nothing.
Brooke reached into her tote and slid a small envelope toward me.
Inside were printed screenshots. Text messages. Emails.