By Friday I had a storage locker.
I rented it under Ian's name and I filled it with copies: the requisition notes, the lab results, the acknowledgment form, the lease, the email, the sign-in sheet from the class, the screenshot from the clinic, and the four pages of handwritten notes I had written myself, transcribing every conversation I could remember from the beginning of my relationship with Grant, with dates, going back fourteen months. Diane had told me to build a timeline. I built it like a wall.
On Saturday morning, Douglas Halloran called me.
"Erin," he said. "Come to the house for lunch. We should talk."
"When?"
"Today. One o'clock."
"I'll be there," I said, and I called Diane, and then I called Ian, and then I drove to the Halloran estate on the bluff above the bay with a
