“How are you holding up? With your mother?”
“I’m managing.”
“That’s not an answer.” He studies me. “You’re dealing with a lot. Maybe too much to handle alone.”
I think about Roman. About how this conversation would go if Barrett knew. About those forty-seven PT sessions and what they’d look like if Winters had proof of why.
“I’ll be okay,” I say.
Barrett doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push. “Take care of yourself. The team needs you.”
I makeit to my car before the panic fully hits.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely turn on the engine. I sit there in the parking lot, trying to breathe, trying to process what just happened.
Winters has a folder. With documentation. Session counts and dates and quotes and evidence that he’s been watching, calculating, building a case piece by piece.
And he knows. Maybe not specifically about Roman, but he suspects. The forty-seven sessions. The “certain players” comment. He’s looking for proof, and if he finds it?—
Myphone buzzes.
Roman
How’d it go with Barrett?
How does he know about the meeting? Did Jake tell him? Does everyone know?
Fine. Just a conversation about optics.
Roman
That’s bullshit and we both know it. Come over tonight. We’ll talk.
Can’t. Have to see Mom.
Roman
After?
I can’t.
I can’t go to his apartment and pretend everything’s fine when Winters is watching, documenting, building his case. Can’t risk anyone seeing my car there. Can’t risk anything that looks like preferential treatment or inappropriate boundaries or any of the things Winters is already accusing me of.
Not tonight.
Roman
Don’t shut me out Marnie.
I’m fine. I promise. Talk tomorrow.
I silence my phone before he can respond.
That nightI sit in Mom’s hospice room and she doesn’t recognize me.
Calls me by her sister’s name. Asks when I’m going back to Portland.
I hold her hand and don’t correct her because what’s the point?
