Chapter 7: What Lacey Knows
1283 Words
WREN POV
“Five minutes,” I said. “That’s all you’re getting.”
Lacey nodded fast. Like she was afraid I would change my mind.
I turned back to the sink and shut the tap off. Dried my hands. Then I leaned against the counter and crossed my arms and looked at her properly for the first time.
She was younger than I expected. I had built her up in my head into something bigger, something colder. But standing here under the harsh bathroom lighting with her hands pressed together in front of her stomach she just looked scared. Young and scared and like she had not slept right in days.
Terrified people tell the truth. That was the only reason I was still in this room.
“Talk,” I said.
She talked fast. Like the words had been backed up for a while and now that the door was open they were coming out whether she was ready or not.
“Owen told me the marriage was already over,” she said. “Before anything happened between us. He told me you knew. That the papers were already drafted and you had agreed to everything quietly.”
I said nothing.
“He said you were relieved. That you had both decided it was done and you were just waiting for the right time to make it official.” She stopped. Swallowed. “He said it was practically already finished.”
My jaw was tight. I kept my face neutral.
“I want you to know I would not have,” she started.
“I’m not here for an apology,” I said. “Keep going.”
She blinked. Then nodded.
“I started to wonder recently. Which parts of it were actually true. Because some of the things he said don’t add up anymore and I keep going back through it and I can’t figure out where the lies stop.”
“Who else told you these things?” I asked. “Besides Owen.”
She hesitated.
There it was. That pause. That specific half-second where someone decides whether they are going to go all the way or pull back.
She went all the way.
“There was a woman,” Lacey said. “About two years ago. She was at a networking event I went to for work. We got talking and she seemed like she genuinely wanted to help me. She said she knew someone I should meet, someone in property development, said it could be good for my career.” She stopped. “That’s how I met Owen. Through her.”
The bathroom felt smaller suddenly.
“She introduced you to Owen.”
“Yes. She made it look accidental but looking back I don’t think it was.”
“What did she look like?”
Lacey thought for a second. “Older. Very put together. Silver hair, short. The kind of woman who walks into a room and everyone knows she’s in charge without her saying anything. She was wearing a cream blazer. I remember because I thought it was beautiful.”
Everything in me went very, very still.
Silver hair. Polished. The kind of woman who makes every room feel like she called it into existence.
I knew exactly who that was.
I had sat across from her at Christmas dinner. I had complimented that cream blazer once, a different one but the same kind, and she had smiled at me the way you smile at someone you are not actually paying attention to.
Diane Briggs.
Owen’s mother.
I did not say the name out loud. Not yet. I needed to think first. I needed to know what Lacey knew and what she did not before I gave her anything she could take back to the wrong person.
“Did she give you her name?” I asked carefully.
“She said her name was Diane. I don’t think I ever got a last name.”
“What happened after she introduced you to Owen?”
“We started talking. Then we started seeing each other. And she kind of faded out of the picture after that. I didn’t think about her much after the first few months.”
I nodded slowly. My brain was already moving fast, lining things up, checking them against each other.
“Two more questions,” I said.
Lacey straightened slightly. “Okay.”
“Did Diane ever contact you again? After the introduction.”
Lacey thought about it. A real think, not a quick no. “Once,” she said. “About eight months ago. She called me. Said she just wanted to check in, see how things were going with Owen. Said she was happy things had worked out.” She paused. “I thought it was kind at the time.”
Eight months ago. Right around the time things between Owen and me had started feeling different. The coldness. The phone checking. The distance I kept telling myself was just work stress.
“Last question,” I said. “The night of the gala. Did you know what Owen was going to say up there?”
She held my gaze. “Yes.”
“Did you know I was going to be in that room?”
“Yes.”
“And you went anyway.”
Her chin dropped slightly. “He told me it was the right way to do it. That it was cleaner. That you had already agreed and this was just making it public.” Her voice went quieter. “I know how that sounds.”
It sounded exactly as bad as it was. But I looked at her face and I did not see a woman who felt good about it. I saw a woman who had been handed a story and chose to believe it because it was easier than asking the right questions.
I had done that too once.
“Okay,” I said. “That’s five minutes.”
“Wren.”
“We’re done for tonight.”
She nodded. She did not try to touch me or push for more. She just nodded and stepped back and I walked out first.
I went back to the table and sat down next to Seth. Picked up my water glass. Took a sip. Set it down.
Seth glanced at me. He did not ask. He just looked and then looked away again and I was grateful for that because I needed two more minutes before I could speak.
I made it through the rest of the dinner. Smiled when I was supposed to. Said the right things. My body was in that room and my head was somewhere else entirely.
In the car going home I told him everything.
All of it. The whole conversation, word by word. Seth sat beside me and listened without saying a thing. Not once. He just let me talk until I ran out of words and the city was moving past the windows and the only sound was the engine and my own voice.
I finished.
Silence.
One second. Two. Three. Four.
“I know the woman Lacey described,” Seth said.
I turned to look at him.
“I’ve known for a while that Diane Briggs was more involved in this than she looked.”
The car felt smaller.
“How long?” I said.
He met my eyes. Held them. Did not flinch and did not look away.
“Long enough,” he said, “that you have every right to be angry at me right now.“
- Writer
