I said nothing.
Olivia had texted me twice during the drive home. I had not answered. At the time, I told myself it was because I needed to think. Now I realized I had been protecting the last fragile seconds before consequence.
Daniel walked to the kitchen table and began gathering some of the papers into a neat stack.
“She won’t speak to you tonight,” he said. “Don’t try.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“That depends on Lauren.”
“She shouldn’t be making big decisions while she’s hurt.”
The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
Daniel turned slowly.
There it was—the old reflex. The one I had learned to dress up as concern. Deciding what Lauren could handle. Suggesting pain made her less rational. Turning her vulnerability into a reason to question her choices.
Daniel’s eyes went cold again. “She made those decisions more clearly than I’ve seen anyone make anything.”
I nodded once. “You’re right.”
He looked surprised by that. Maybe I was too.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke.
Then Daniel said, “There’s one more thing.”
My stomach tightened. “What?”
“Lauren asked me not to tell you unless you read the whole letter.”
“I did.”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small key ring. On it was a single brass key with a faded blue tag.
I recognized it immediately.
“The storage unit,” I said.
Daniel tossed it onto the coffee table. It landed beside the folder.
“She wants you to go there tomorrow before the attorney calls.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
I looked at the key. The storage unit had belonged to Lauren before we married. She kept old furniture there, boxes from her teaching days, childhood keepsakes, art supplies. I had not been there in years.
“Why would she send me there?”
Daniel shook his head. “Maybe because there are things she wants you to remember.”
Something in his voice made me look up.
“What does that mean?”
He did not answer immediately. His gaze moved around the living room, resting briefly on the empty wheelchair.
“When I found her,” he said, “she was on the floor right there.” He pointed toward the kitchen threshold. “She was holding the phone cord so tightly her fingers were stiff. Mom was crying on speaker. Lauren wasn’t.”
I listened, unable to move.
“She looked at me and said, ‘Don’t hate him for me.’” Daniel’s mouth tightened. “Can you believe that? After everything, that was one of the first things she said.”
My chest ached.
“She said that?”
“She said hatred would make this about you. And she was tired of things being about you.”
The words settled heavily between us.
Daniel picked up his jacket from the armchair. “I wanted to hate you anyway.”
“You have every right.”
“I know.”
He moved toward the door, then paused beside the duffel bag. For the first time, his voice softened—not with forgiveness, but with exhaustion.
“Marcus, I’m not here to decide what kind of man you are. I’m here because my sister asked me to make sure you found her letter and left without making things worse. That’s all.”
I nodded.
He opened the front door. Night air entered the house, cool and damp.
“Lock up when you leave,” he said. “And don’t sleep here.”
Then he stepped onto the porch.
“Daniel.”
He stopped but did not turn around.
“Did she ask about me?”
His shoulders rose and fell.
“Yes,” he said. “Once.”
My heart clenched. “What did she ask?”
Daniel looked back at me then, and his expression was almost unbearable.
“She asked if you sounded worried when I called.”
I frowned. “You never called me.”
“I know,” he said. “I told her your phone went straight to voicemail.”
He closed the door behind him.
