She nodded, crying harder. “He told me to fix it before you found out.”
I led her to the couch. “Sit,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
Piece by piece, the truth spilled out: how Caleb came to her apartment while I was working late, complaining that I didn’t have time for him. How he kissed her, pushed for more, then told her it “couldn’t happen again.” How he texted afterward anyway. How he panicked when she told him she was pregnant.
When I asked if he’d given her money, she nodded.
Caleb tried to interrupt, but I cut him off with a stare.
“You’re leaving,” I told him.
He scoffed. “This is my house too.”
I pulled out my phone. “Then stay for now. I’ll call a lawyer—and your mother, since she loves to ‘keep up appearances.’”
The threat hit him where it mattered. His expression shifted—no shame, only calculation.
That alone told me everything.
He didn’t leave. He paced like a trapped wolf, muttering excuses while Mariah curled into the corner of my couch.
I texted my friend, Tessa: Come now. Don’t call.
Then I changed every password I had. In my email’s sent folder, I found forwarded documents—papers I never sent—and one email to someone named J. RICHARDS:
“Mariah issue resolved?”