I was in the garden, wrapped in my mother’s old cardigan, watching Marta prune roses with ruthless efficiency. My phone rang from an unknown number.
Rebecca had told me not to answer unknown calls.
I answered anyway.
For three seconds, there was only breathing.
Then Brenda said, “Ella?”
Her voice sounded smaller than I expected.
I stood. “Why are you calling me?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“You can talk to my attorney.”
“No. Please. Not like that.”
I almost hung up.
Then she said, “They lied to me too.”
The garden seemed to still around me.
“Who did?”
“Elias and Cynthia.”
I looked toward the house. Through the kitchen window, I could see Rebecca on a call, pacing with her notebook in hand.
“Brenda,” I said slowly, “this is not a conversation you should be having with me.”
“I know. I know that. But I didn’t know about the apartment plan.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“You were on speaker.”
“I know what you heard.”
My breath caught.
Silence stretched.
“So Elias told you.”
“No.” Her voice trembled. “Cynthia did. She said you recorded them. She’s furious. She said you were hiding under the bed like some kind of lunatic.”
My pulse moved into my throat.
Cynthia knew.
“How?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
But she did. I heard it in the way her voice thinned.
“Brenda.”
A shaky exhale. “Elias found something in the hotel suite. A bead from your dress, maybe. I don’t know. Cynthia started putting it together after you vanished.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
No secret stayed perfect forever.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“I want you to know I’m not part of everything.”
“You were part of enough.”
“I know.”
The admission disarmed me more than denial would have.
Brenda had always been polished, bright, a woman who knew how to enter a room as if applause might follow. But now she sounded young. Frightened. Cornered.
“Are you pregnant?” I asked.
Another pause.
