Chapter Seven — What Natalie Knew
The night after Daniel opened up about Claire, Zara found herself wide awake.
Not because she was upset. She wanted to make that clear — at least to herself, as she sat in the softly lit kitchen at two in the morning, cradling a fresh cup of tea since the last one had gone cold during their three-hour conversation.
She wasn't upset.
She was processing.
These were two different things. Being upset was reactive — it pushed you toward something, demanded attention, and required an immediate response. Processing, on the other hand, was what you did when you had taken in a lot of information and needed time to let it settle into place before you could truly grasp its shape.
And she was starting to see that shape.
She was seeing it clearly.
Daniel had a daughter. Eight years old. Sick with something serious, undergoing treatment, and the doctors were cautiously optimistic about her recovery. And here was Zara, still in her kitchen in the early hours of Wednesday morning, contemplating what cautiously optimistic really meant for a little girl named Claire, who lived three hours north with her mother.
She reflected on the other weekends.
All those weekends she hadn't questioned because she understood that Daniel had a life beyond Crestview. She hadn't asked because it felt presumptuous — they were still new, still figuring things out, and she didn't want to impose on his time or invade his privacy.
But now, she understood what those other weekends had been about.
Now, she realized what he had been carrying during those weekends — driving three hours north to be with a sick child, being there for whatever that weekend required, and then driving three hours back to Crestview, to the legal pad and the corner table.
Alone.
He had been doing it all alone.
She shot him a text at two fifteen. Are you awake? — Z
Almost instantly, three dots popped up. Yes. — D
Are you okay? — Z
There was a pause that felt longer than usual.
I don't know, he replied. Are you?
She glanced at the screen.
I'm processing, she typed back. Not upset. Just processing.
There's a difference.
Yes. I've been trying to wrap my head around this for three hours.
Another pause. Then: I should have told you sooner.
Yes, she replied. But Daniel — there's something I need you to understand.
What is it?
She pondered how to express it, searching for the right words to convey what he needed to grasp before he sank deeper into the darkness of keeping something significant and now facing the fallout.
A daughter who is sick isn't a confession, she typed. It's not something you should have been handling on your own. It's something I would have wanted to know. Not because it changes what we have, but because it's a part of you, and I want to know all the parts.
She hit send.
Then she waited.
The three dots appeared, vanished, and then appeared again.
Then: I was scared of what you'd do with it.
Do with it? she typed. What do you mean?
People leave, he said. When things get complicated. When there's a sick child, a custody arrangement, a medical schedule — people weigh the complexity and they walk away.
She stared at the message.
She thought about two years with someone who had stuck around when she should have walked away.
She reflected on what it meant to understand both the staying and leaving calculations.
I'm not those people, she typed.
Three dots.
I know, he replied. I know that now.
She arrived at Groundwork at eight. He was already there, of course. Seven twenty—always consistent, always reliable, just like he was about the things he deemed worth showing up for. When she walked in, he looked up.
As she took him in, her mind raced with everything she now understood—Claire, Sophie, the custody arrangement, the cautious optimism, the fourteen months, and the burden she had been carrying alone. She processed it all and then made her way to his table, taking a seat.
Not her usual corner table. His table.
He watched her settle in across from him.
"Hi," she greeted.
"Hi." His voice was soft, tinged with a weariness that felt different—no longer the solitude of being alone, but rather a shared fatigue. It was the kind of tiredness that comes from having laid down a heavy load the night before and still adjusting to the relief of not having to carry it anymore.
Bette brought over two coffees without needing to be asked.
She glanced between them, her expression saying everything and nothing at once, before she walked away.
"I want to meet her," Zara said, breaking the silence.
He turned his gaze to her.
"Claire," she clarified. "I want to meet her. Not today, not next week—when the time is right, when she's ready, and when you think it's the right thing to do." She held his gaze firmly. "But I want you to know that I want to. Because she matters. And since she matters to you, that means she matters to me."
He studied her for a long moment, something shifting in his expression.
"You are—" he began, then hesitated. "I don't have the right word for what you are."
"You don't need one," she replied. "Just drink your coffee."
He took a sip of his coffee.
She did the same.
The morning wrapped around them, comfortable and familiar, like something that had weathered a storm and emerged still whole.
Her phone buzzed at nine. An unknown number. Another message. She glanced at it before showing it to Daniel, wanting to read it first—needing to know what she was up against before bringing it to him. In the last twenty-four hours, she had figured out how she wanted to approach Natalie: first, on her own, and then together. The message read: He hasn't told you everything. Ask him about Boston. She read it twice. Boston. The meaning of Boston eluded her. She slipped the phone into her pocket and looked at Daniel, who was engrossed in his legal pad, concentrating like someone who had decided that diving into work was the best way to tackle a tough morning. She watched him for a moment, her mind drifting back to Boston. She thought about what she knew of Daniel—the layers he had revealed and those still hidden, the ones she had sensed from the start and had accepted because she trusted the pace of their relationship. Pulling the phone back out, she showed him the message. He read it, and his expression shifted through several stages. She observed the reading, the processing, the recognition, and finally the specific resignation of someone who knew a conversation was inevitable but had been caught off guard by the unfolding events. "Boston," she said softly. "Yes." "Tell me." He set the legal pad aside and met her gaze across the table. "Three weeks ago," he began slowly, "Claire's doctors informed me about a clinical trial. In Boston. They think she would be an excellent candidate." He held her gaze steady. "The trial requires relocation. Sophie and Claire would need to move to Boston for at least twelve months." She remained very still. "And you?" she asked. He kept his eyes on hers. "And me," he replied.
The buzz of the coffee shop surrounded them. Someone placed an order at the counter, and Bette replied. The espresso machine let out a familiar hiss. Nearby, a couple at a table near the door chuckled at something amusing. It was just another Tuesday morning at Groundwork, completely oblivious to the conversation unfolding at the corner table.
She turned to Daniel.
"You've known about Boston for three weeks," she said.
"Yes."
"The entire time you were here. Sitting at this table. While things between us were—" she paused. "You knew."
"Yes."
Her gaze dropped to her coffee. She reflected on those three weeks of mornings, of his table and hers, of evenings spent under the lamp, and Gerald's leaves rustling nearby. She remembered the moment in her kitchen on a rainy Saturday when she thought, I think I'm falling in love with you, and the trust that came with it—what it meant to be in something real with someone, all while not knowing they were planning a twelve-month move.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked.
"Because I didn't know how," he replied. "I wasn't sure what telling you would mean. Whether it would feel like I was asking something of you that I had no right to ask."
"What were you afraid to ask?"
He met her gaze steadily.
"Whether you would think about coming with me," he said.
The coffee shop buzzed around them, yet it felt eerily silent. She studied him, contemplating two suitcases, a broken laptop, and her firm stance against unnecessary complications. She thought about what that policy had already cost her.
And then there was Claire, a little girl who was sick, living three hours north, whose father had been shouldering everything alone.
"You should have told me three weeks ago," she said.
"I know," he admitted.
"But Daniel—"
She hesitated, locking eyes with him.
"Ask me," she urged.
He glanced at her.
"Would you think about coming to Boston?" he asked.
The question lingered between them on that Tuesday morning, surrounded by coffee cups, a legal pad, and the weight of the seven weeks of everything they had built together.
She didn't respond right away.
She took a moment to really consider it.
Thoughts of Crestview flooded her mind—the corner table, Gerald, the market on Greville Street with the ceramic stall lady, Bette and her shortbread, and the strategic seating arrangements. The apartment with its brick wall view, the clanking radiator, and the sturdy wooden desk.
She reflected on all of it and what it would mean to leave it behind.
She pondered what she would be stepping into.
Daniel, in the same city. No more managing weekends apart. No more navigating around a case with a deadline. Just him. Present. Every day. The real deal.
Claire. A little girl who was unwell, whom she hadn't met yet, but who mattered deeply to the man she loved, which meant she mattered too.
A new city. Something she had done before, and it had brought her to this moment.
She mulled it all over.
Finally, she said, "Give me a week."
He met her gaze.
"One week," she added. "I need time to think it through. I want to make sure I'm choosing for the right reasons, not just because—" she hesitated. "Not just because I love you, and love can sometimes make the complicated stuff feel less significant than it really is."
He paused for a moment, taking it in.
"You love me," he said softly.
She looked at him, affirming, "Yes, Daniel. I love you. You know that."
"I do," he replied. "I just wanted to hear it in this context."
She held his gaze across the table.
"Give me a week," she repeated.
"One week," he agreed.
Her phone buzzed again right at noon. It was from an unknown number. She had been waiting for this. Natalie was doling out information bit by bit — she had figured that out the day before, and her understanding hadn't changed since. The photograph would be next. Or maybe something else. Another piece of whatever it was that Natalie was building up to.
She glanced at the message. This time, it was a photograph. Daniel was outside a building she didn't recognize. It was taken with a long lens — from a distance, by someone who clearly didn't want to be noticed. He wasn't alone. There was a woman next to him, dark-haired, in her early thirties, her hand resting on his arm. They were close, like people who shared a deep connection.
Beneath the photo, the message read: Who is she?
She showed it to Daniel. He studied the photograph. His face didn't show guilt. She was searching for guilt, but it wasn't there. Instead, she saw something that resembled relief — the kind of relief that comes from someone who has been carrying a lot and is finally watching it all come to light, each revelation feeling lighter than the last.
"Her name is Dr. Amara Cole," he said. "She's Claire's physician. The lead physician — the one overseeing the trial recommendation, the one Sophie and I meet with regularly." He turned to Zara. "The photo was taken outside the hospital. I was leaving a meeting."
Zara examined the photograph, then looked back at him.
"Natalie has been following you," she stated.
"Yes."
"For how long?"
"I'm not sure."
"What does she want, Daniel? What does she really want? Not the 'let's try again' version — what's her actual goal?"
He paused for a moment.
"I think," he said slowly, "that she wants to burn it all down."
The coffee shop buzzed with noise.
"Burn what down," she said.
"This." He waved his hand between them. "What we're building. What she can see we're creating from —" he hesitated. "From however long she's been watching."
Zara took this in.
She pictured a woman with a suitcase arriving in Crestview, fully aware of Daniel's schedule. She imagined the surveillance, the photos snapped with a long lens, and messages sent at just the right moment. It was all so meticulously crafted — the work of someone who wasn't acting on a whim but was instead plotting.
"She planned this," Zara stated.
"Yes."
"Before she even got here. She had those photos in her possession before she arrived."
"Yes."
"She came here knowing she had them. She sat in our coffee shop, discussing the possibility of trying again, fully aware that if you said no —" Zara paused. "She had options. The try again option and the burn it down option."
He met her gaze. "Yes. That's exactly it."
Zara glanced at the message on her phone.
Who is she?
She stared at it, thinking about someone who had just lost a three-year relationship, someone who hadn't really processed that loss and had found another way to regain control.
She reflected on what that must feel like.
She didn't want to feel sympathy for Natalie.
But it crept in anyway.
Not a lot. Not enough to overshadow everything else. But enough to acknowledge.
"She is in pain," she said.
Daniel looked at her.
"She's also causing it," he replied.
"Both can be true," she countered.
He studied her for a long moment.
"What do you want to do?" he asked.
She glanced at the photo on her phone.
Then at Daniel.
Then at the Groundwork door.
"I'm going to talk to her," she decided.
Daniel reacted instantly. "No."
"Daniel — "
"She's sending surveillance photos to your phone," he interrupted. "She came here with a plan. Talking to her is not — "
"I'm not asking for permission," she replied softly.
He paused.
She met his eyes. "I'm telling you what I'm going to do. Not out of recklessness, but because I believe it's the right thing." She took a breath. "Marcus said she's at the hotel on Carver Street."
He looked at her in disbelief. "You talked to Marcus."
"You called him last night. He reached out to me this morning when he couldn't get a hold of you." She held his gaze firmly. "He filled me in on what he discovered. The dismissed position. The investigation. The timeline."
He remained silent, still as a statue. "You know about her job."
"Yes."
"And you still want to talk to her."
"Because of her job," she affirmed. "Yes." She looked at him unwaveringly. "She lost everything in three weeks, Daniel. Her relationship was already over. Then her career fell apart. She came here because she had nothing left to lose, thinking she had some leverage. She's mistaken, but I get why she tried."
He studied her.
"You are too — " he hesitated.
"Too what?"
"Too good at this," he said. "At seeing beneath the surface of people."
"My mother taught me," she replied.
He fell silent for a long moment.
"I'm coming," he finally said. "I'll wait outside."
"Yes," she agreed. "You'll wait outside."
"And if anything feels off — "
"I'll leave immediately." She held his gaze. "I promise."
He looked at her for a moment longer.
Then he nodded.
The decision was made.
She grabbed her bag.
She had a conversation to have.
The hotel on Carver Street was unassuming and peaceful. It was the kind of place you picked when you needed a little anonymity—just the right balance, not so cheap that it felt desperate, but not so fancy that it felt like a long-term stay. It was a spot to just be, without drawing attention. She had stayed in places like this before.
As she walked through the lobby, she was alone. Daniel was waiting outside on the pavement, while Marcus sat in a car across the street. Her phone was tucked away in her jacket pocket, Daniel's number glowing on the screen, her thumb hovering over the call button. But she didn't think she'd need to use it.
Approaching the front desk, she asked for Natalie Marsh. The receptionist made the call. There was a brief pause before she replied, "She says she will come down."
Zara settled into one of the two chairs in the small lobby area, which also featured a low table and a struggling plant that was definitely worse off than Gerald. She sat up straight, hands relaxed in her lap, and took slow, calming breaths.
She had thought about what she wanted to say and decided against having a script. She was determined to speak from the heart.
Three minutes later, Natalie emerged from the lift. In person, she was different from the polished image of the woman from Groundwork. She still looked sharp—her dark hair perfectly styled and her coat expensive—but there was an underlying weariness, as if the effort to keep it all together was starting to take its toll.
When she spotted Zara, she paused, clearly expecting Daniel. The surprise flickered across her face for just a moment, then something else took over—an expression that seemed to carry a hint of relief, like someone who had been bracing for a confrontation but had just been offered a different path.
Zara met her gaze. "Sit down, Natalie," she said softly. "I think we need to talk."
Natalie sat there, exuding the kind of calm that comes from someone who believes that staying composed is the answer to everything—even when that calm is costing her more than it's worth. She faced Zara in the cozy hotel lobby, hands resting in her lap, and regarded her with the keen eye of someone who had anticipated a different kind of confrontation.
"He sent you," she stated flatly.
"Nobody sent me," Zara replied, holding Natalie's gaze without flinching. "I made the choice to come here." She continued, "Daniel is outside. Marcus is across the street. This conversation is mine."
Natalie paused, studying her for a moment.
"What do you want?" she asked.
"I want to understand something," Zara said, her tone steady. "Not about Daniel. About you." There was no warmth in her voice—she wasn't going to fake feelings she didn't have. But it wasn't hostile either. It was honest. "You lost your job three weeks ago. You lost your relationship fourteen months ago. You've come to a city that isn't yours, armed with surveillance photos and a plan." She took a breath. "I want to know what you thought would happen."
Natalie remained perfectly still.
"He was going to come back," she finally said. "Once I showed him what I had—once he realized I could complicate things—he would choose the easier option."
"The easier option being you," Zara clarified.
"Yes."
"And if he didn't choose the easier option?"
Natalie's gaze drifted to a plant in the corner, one that was faring worse than Gerald. "I was going to make the other option so difficult that it wouldn't be worth it."
Zara studied her intently.
"You were prepared to destroy something to punish him for not choosing you," she said.
Natalie didn't respond.
She didn't need to.
They were sitting quietly in the lobby, the atmosphere calm and still. A person walked by, heading toward the lifts, while the receptionist picked up a ringing phone. In the corner, a plant stood valiantly, doing its best to thrive despite the circumstances.
"He didn't choose you," Zara said, her voice steady. "Not because of me. I want you to really get that. He had already decided not to go back before I even came into the picture. The relationship was over long before it ended."
Natalie's gaze was fixed on the plant. "I know that."
"Then why," Zara pressed, "why come here? Why the photos and the messages?"
"Because," Natalie replied slowly, her words heavy with emotion. "Watching him be happy without me, when I feel like I have nothing left—" she hesitated, then continued, "I needed someone to share in my unhappiness."
Her words were small yet sincere, and they cost her something deep inside.
Zara studied her closely.
She reflected on the two years spent with someone who had diminished her spirit. She thought about how that relationship had worked, how she had stayed, and how it felt from both the inside and the outside. She remembered losing something that had once felt important, even when it was wrong.
Arriving in Crestview with just two suitcases and a promise to keep things simple came to mind.
She imagined how painful it would be to watch someone else live the life she had once dreamed of.
She got it.
She didn't excuse it.
But she understood.
"Natalie," she said gently, "I need to say something, and I really need you to listen."
Natalie met her gaze.
"What you're doing isn't going to ease your unhappiness," Zara said. "It's just going to amplify what you already feel. It'll give you something to distract yourself with instead of facing the real issue."
She paused for a moment.
"The real issue," she continued, "is that you're alone, and you don't know how to deal with that."
Natalie stared at her for what felt like an eternity. The lobby was eerily quiet, with the receptionist engrossed in some task at the desk. The person who had headed to the lifts was long gone. Just two women sitting in chairs, a struggling plant awkwardly positioned between them.
"You're not what I expected," Natalie finally broke the silence.
"What did you expect?"
"Anger." She paused for a moment. "Jealousy. A show of feeling threatened."
"I'm not threatened," Zara replied, her tone calm and unembellished. "He's with me. That's not something you can change with a few photos."
Natalie glanced down at her hands.
"I know," she murmured, almost inaudibly.
"Then stop," Zara urged. "Stop sending messages. Delete the photos. Just go home." She held Natalie's gaze firmly. "And find someone to talk to. Not a friend — a professional. Someone who can help you deal with what's really going on."
Natalie fell silent.
"That's all," she finally said. "That's why you came here."
"Yes."
"No threats. No legal action. No — "
"No," Zara interjected. "Unless the messages keep coming. In that case, Marcus will take care of it, and I promise you, that will be a lot less comfortable than this chat."
A flicker of something crossed Natalie's face. Not quite a smile, but close.
"You're very strange," she remarked.
"I've been told that before," Zara replied with a hint of amusement.
She stood up.
Natalie followed suit.
They exchanged glances in the lobby of the Carver Street hotel.
"He's lucky," Natalie said softly, without a trace of bitterness — almost surprised by her own lack of resentment.
"I know," Zara replied. "So am I."
With that, she stepped out of the hotel and into the crisp October afternoon.
Daniel was waiting on the pavement, exactly where she had left him.
He looked at her face, reading her emotions, and let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding.
She took his hand.
"Let's go home," she said.
They made their way to Groundwork. Naturally, they headed to Groundwork. Bette glanced at the two of them as they walked in — their hands intertwined, the way they looked at each other, that unmistakable vibe of two people who had just navigated through something significant — and she immediately went to brew two coffees. She carried them over to the corner table. In a surprising turn of events, she actually sat down. Her gaze landed on Zara. "Tell me," she prompted. So Zara did. She recounted the story clearly and in sequence — about Natalie, the hotel, the lobby, and everything that had been said. She intentionally skipped over the parts that were private to Natalie because some things, even when sharing with Bette, deserved to be kept close to the chest. Bette listened with the kind of focus that came from twenty-three years of reading people. When Zara wrapped up, Bette paused for a moment. "You sat down with the woman who sent your home address to your phone," she remarked. "And you offered her compassion." "I offered her honesty," Zara replied. "Compassion is just a byproduct." Bette turned her gaze to her. Then to Daniel. "You know what you have," she said to him. "Yes," Daniel replied. "I know exactly what I have." Bette stood up. She looked between them one last time, her expression holding the weight of twenty-three years, about four hundred oat lattes, and one well-thought-out seating arrangement. "Good," she said simply. Then she headed back to the counter. Zara picked up her coffee. She glanced at Daniel across the corner table, in the October afternoon light streaming through the window, with the case nearing its end, Boston in the distance, a little girl named Claire three hours north, and Gerald at home with his seven leaves. "One week," she said. "One week," he confirmed. She took a sip of her coffee, already making up her mind.
That evening, she found herself sitting at her desk for what felt like ages. Not really working, just lost in thought, reflecting on the day — the whole journey of it, from the two a.m. tea to the hotel lobby, to that cozy corner table, and now the October afternoon spilling through the kitchen window as the last rays of sunlight faded away. She pondered the week she had requested. She considered what she was truly deciding. Boston was off the table — that much was already clear to her. She had realized it in the lobby when she thought about what lay ahead and felt no anxiety at all. Just a comforting warmth of something already settled. But she was grappling with something else. She was figuring out what kind of person she wanted to be in this situation. Not who she wished to be — she had always known that. She had been so certain about the person she aspired to be that those two years spent with someone who wanted her to be someone else felt like such a glaring mistake in hindsight. Now, she was contemplating whether to embrace that person openly. Fully. Without the careful checks, the emotional distance, and the avoidance of unnecessary complications. Without the management. She glanced at Gerald. Seven leaves. She thought about something that thrived despite tough conditions. Despite the brick wall, the limited light, the clanking radiator, and everything else. She picked up her phone. Typed to Daniel: I do not need the week. — Z Three dots appeared almost instantly. No. — D No, she typed back. I am coming to Boston. I've already made up my mind. I just needed to be sure I understood it completely before I said it out loud. A long pause followed. Then: Zara. Just her name. Just that. She understood what it signified. I know, she replied. I know too.