I closed my eyes.
Daniel’s voice sharpened. “You drained your joint savings.”
“I didn’t drain it.”
“You moved eighteen thousand dollars.”
“I was going to put it back.”
“When?”
I had no answer.
He shook his head. “Her attorney will argue financial abandonment. Maybe dissipation of marital assets. I don’t know the legal terms, but it’s bad.”
My heartbeat thudded in my ears.
“I used some of it for Vanessa,” I admitted.
Daniel’s expression hardened. “Yeah. Hannah knows.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
Every secret had a receipt.
Every lie had a date.
Every selfish choice had become a weapon in someone else’s hands.
That night, Daniel stayed long enough to make sure I didn’t do anything stupid. Then he left without hugging me.
I slept on the bare mattress in the guest room because I couldn’t stand the master bedroom.
Hannah’s side of the bed was empty, but not in the normal way.
It was stripped clean.
No pillow.
No book on the nightstand.
No lotion.
No hair tie.
No evidence she had ever slept beside me.
At 3:17 a.m., I woke up thinking I heard Grace crying.
I ran to the nursery.
The empty room waited.
By morning, my eyes felt like sandpaper.
I called in sick, though I wasn’t sick.
Or maybe I was.
Sick with the sudden knowledge of myself.
At 9:04 a.m., an unknown number called.
I answered too fast.
“Hannah?”
A woman’s voice replied, calm and professional. “Mr. Mitchell, this is Laura Bennett. I represent Hannah Mitchell.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Is she there?”
“I’m not calling to discuss Mrs. Mitchell’s location.”
“Can I speak to her?”
“No.”
“Please. I just need to know if Grace—”
“Your daughter is safe.”
I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Mrs. Mitchell has filed a temporary order request,” the attorney continued. “Until the court date, all communication must go through counsel. You are not to contact her family, friends, employer, or attempt to locate her residence.”
“I’m her husband.”
“You are also the respondent in a custody and divorce proceeding.”
The words sounded cold, official, permanent.
“I want to see my daughter.”
“That will be addressed in court.”
“When?”
“You will receive formal notice.”
I swallowed. “Can you tell Hannah I’m sorry?”
There was a pause.
“I can relay messages relevant to legal matters.”
“Please.”
Another pause, longer this time.
Then the attorney said, “Mr. Mitchell, I’m going to speak plainly. Do not make this worse by trying to find her. Your wife documented everything carefully. The court will not respond well to intimidation, emotional pressure, or attempts to bypass counsel.”
“I would never hurt her.”
“Intent is not the only thing courts consider.”
The call ended two minutes later.
I sat there with the phone in my hand, feeling less like a husband than a defendant.
By noon, Vanessa showed up.
