Chapter 3 - Two Women Julian Believed He Could Control
Rebecca Sloan arrived at Garrison’s farmhouse before eight the next morning.
She was in her mid-forties, wore a navy suit without a single wrinkle, and carried two leather cases that looked heavy enough to contain a small law library.
She did not offer sympathy.
That was the first thing I liked about her.
Instead, she sat at the kitchen table and asked precise questions about my marriage, income, mortgage payments, fertility treatments, insurance coverage, and the joint account Julian had emptied.
When I finished, she closed her notebook.
“Your husband is counting on you being too ashamed and overwhelmed to fight,” she said.
“He has the house and the money.”
“He temporarily possesses the house and the money. Ownership is a legal determination, not something Julian gets to announce from the porch.”
“He says I abandoned the marriage.”
“You were locked out while your belongings remained inside. We have a witness, photographs of the replacement locks, security footage from Mr. Blackwood’s property, and the delivery crew that moved Chloe into the house. His claim is insulting.”
Garrison poured coffee without interrupting.
Rebecca turned to him.
“You understand that the medical report creates complications.”
“I do.”
“We cannot simply file it in court without establishing a lawful chain of custody.”
“I have the original investigative records.”
Her eyes narrowed. “All of them?”
“Every page.”
“Then I’ll need access.”
“You’ll get what you’re authorized to receive.”
The exchange lasted only seconds, but I sensed history between them.
“How do you two know each other?” I asked.
Rebecca glanced at Garrison.
“He once put a man in handcuffs during my closing argument.”
“The man had a gun,” Garrison said.
“He also arrested a judge.”
“The judge was taking bribes.”
“And somehow that became my most memorable Tuesday.”
Despite everything, a small laugh escaped me.
It was the first time I had laughed since Julian’s announcement.
Rebecca’s expression softened.
“We’ll request an emergency financial order today. Julian cannot strip marital assets simply because he transferred them first. We’ll also seek restoration of your insurance or equivalent coverage.”
“My appointment in Boston is next week.”
“I know.”
I looked at Garrison. “You told her?”
“I asked whether paying for the consultation would cause problems.”
“It might if there were romantic conditions attached,” Rebecca said.
“There aren’t,” he replied.
Heat rose into my face.
Garrison remained perfectly calm.
Rebecca studied him for a moment. “Good. Then document it as a medical assistance grant through the Caroline Blackwood Foundation.”
I nearly dropped my coffee.
“The what?”
Garrison’s jaw tightened slightly.
Rebecca looked between us. “You haven’t told her?”
“I told her what she needed to know.”
“No, you told her almost nothing, which is your preferred method of communication.”
“What is the Caroline Blackwood Foundation?” I asked.
Garrison rested both hands on the back of a chair.
“A private organization my wife and I established.”
“What does it do?”
“Funds fertility care, medical advocacy, and investigations into clinical misconduct.”
“How large is it?”
“Large enough to cover your consultation.”
Rebecca gave him a dry look.
I opened my phone and searched the name.
The foundation’s website appeared immediately. Its annual report showed grants to hospitals, research programs, and patients across the country. The listed endowment was more than two hundred million dollars.
I slowly raised my head.
“You run this?”
“I chair it.”
“You let everyone believe you were living across the road on a sheriff’s pension.”
“I do receive a pension.”
Rebecca covered a smile with her coffee cup.
Garrison did not explain where the rest of the money came from, and I was too overwhelmed to ask.
Within hours, Rebecca obtained a temporary court order preventing Julian from moving additional assets. By late afternoon, a judge had directed him to return enough funds to cover my immediate living expenses.
Julian called the moment the order reached him.
I let it ring twice before answering.
“You hired Rebecca Sloan?” he demanded.
“I hired an attorney.”
“You have no idea what she charges.”
“My finances stopped being your concern when you emptied our account.”
“That money belonged to my company.”
“Then you can explain the deposits from my paychecks.”
His silence lasted half a second too long.
“Who is paying her?”
“My arrangements with my attorney are private.”
“Is Blackwood involved?”
I looked through the kitchen window. Garrison was outside splitting firewood, each movement deliberate and steady.
“Why would that matter?”
“Because he has no business interfering in our marriage.”
“Our marriage ended when you brought Chloe into our home.”
“Evelyn, you’re emotional. Come back without Sloan, and perhaps we can reach a reasonable settlement.”
“You changed the locks.”
“I can arrange for your clothes to be delivered.”
“I don’t want a delivery. I want what is legally mine.”
His voice became colder.
“You were never like this.”
“No. I believed you before.”
I ended the call.
A minute later, he sent a message.
You have no idea who you are dealing with.
I showed it to Rebecca.
She smiled without humor. “Keep that. Judges enjoy threats from men who believe they’re subtle.”
The Boston appointment changed everything.
Dr. Miriam Patel reviewed my entire medical history instead of focusing on the conclusions of the previous clinic. She ordered new tests, repeated older ones, and spent nearly two hours asking questions no one had asked before.
At the end of the second day, she placed a folder on her desk.
“Your reproductive health is not perfect,” she said, “but nothing here supports the claim that you were solely responsible for six years of unsuccessful treatment.”
My throat tightened.
“Could I become pregnant?”
“Yes.”
The single word nearly broke me.
“Then why did every treatment fail?”
“Because effective fertility care must account for both partners. If your husband’s report is accurate, the treatment plan should have been substantially different.”
I looked toward Garrison, who had driven me to Boston but waited quietly near the window.
Dr. Patel continued.
“I also found unusual inconsistencies in the medication protocols you received. Some procedures appear to have been scheduled despite lab results suggesting the timing was wrong.”
“You think the clinic knew they wouldn’t work?”
“I cannot determine intent from the records alone. I can say that the treatment does not meet the standard I would expect.”
On the flight home, I stared through the window at the clouds.
“I spent six years hating my body,” I said.
Garrison sat beside me, his broad shoulders nearly filling the seat.
“Caroline did the same.”
“Did you and she ever have children?”
His gaze lowered.
“She became pregnant once.”
“What happened?”
“We lost our daughter late in the pregnancy. Afterward, Caroline’s health declined. The clinic insisted the loss proved she was the problem.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Years later, we discovered a medication error had contributed to it. The clinic buried the report.”
“The same clinic Julian used?”
“A connected network. Different name, many of the same people.”
That explained the foundation, the investigation, and the pain beneath Garrison’s controlled voice.
“Did anyone go to prison?”
“Some did. The administrator who altered Julian’s file cooperated before his sentencing. He admitted Julian paid to remove the report from your shared records.”
“Why?”
“Julian said the truth would destroy his marriage.”
I gave a bitter laugh. “So he destroyed me instead.”
Garrison looked directly at me.
“He tried. There is a difference.”
When we returned to Cedar Hollow, Julian’s car was parked outside the farmhouse.
He stood on the porch with Chloe beside him. She wore a loose coat despite the warm evening, and her face was pale.
Garrison stepped between them and the doorway.
“You’re on private property,” he said.
Julian ignored him and focused on me.
“You went to Boston.”
“How do you know?”
“Our insurance history flagged an information request.”
“You canceled my insurance.”
“I still have access to the old account.”
Rebecca would be interested in that admission.
Julian pointed toward Garrison. “Do you understand what he’s doing? He’s using your desperation to make himself feel important.”
Garrison’s expression did not change.
“Leave.”
Julian laughed. “You don’t give orders anymore, Sheriff.”
Duke appeared inside the screen door and released a low growl.
Chloe touched Julian’s arm. “Let’s go.”
“No.” He pulled away. “Evelyn needs to hear the truth.”
“The truth?” I asked. “Would that be the severe male-factor infertility diagnosis you hid for five years?”
Every trace of color disappeared from his face.
Chloe stared at him.
“What diagnosis?”
Julian recovered quickly.
“It’s fabricated.”
“I saw the report.”
“Then Blackwood created it.”
Garrison took one step forward.
Julian stepped back without meaning to.
“The report existed before I knew Evelyn,” Garrison said. “The clinic administrator preserved the payment record from your company.”
Chloe turned toward Julian. “You told me you had never been tested.”
“This is none of his business.”
“You told me the baby proved you were fertile.”
Julian’s panic sharpened into anger.
“It does.”
Chloe looked at him with an expression I could not understand. Fear, perhaps, but not only fear.
“Julian,” she whispered, “we need to leave.”
He grabbed her elbow.
She flinched.
Garrison’s voice dropped.
“Take your hand off her.”
Julian released her immediately.
For the first time, I saw that Chloe was not standing beside a victorious man. She was trapped inside another version of his lie.
As they walked away, a small white card slipped from Chloe’s coat pocket and landed near the porch steps.
I picked it up after their car disappeared.
It was an appointment reminder from a prenatal genetics clinic.
A handwritten note appeared on the back.
May you like
Call me when Julian isn’t there. Please.
Beneath it was Chloe’s number.
