In the driveway, another car pulled in — his own attorney, I’d learn, a man already trying to manage a client whose situation could not be managed. Behind him, I knew, were calls Garrett would have to take, rooms he’d have to sit in, questions he could not charm his way out of.
“Go talk to your lawyer,” I said. “You’re going to need him far more than you ever needed me. Which, for the record, was always.”
I stepped back into my warm house.
“Goodbye, Garrett,” I said. “Enjoy the airport.”
And I closed the door on eleven years, on the pounding that started up again and then, slowly, hopelessly, stopped — and on the last cold morning I would ever spend being anyone’s useless woman.
PART 5 — FINAL
People want to know what happened to him. I know the shape of it better than most, because I used to be the one it happened to people.
