They Threw a Baby Shower for His Mistress in My House novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: The On-Call Room

Claire sleeps at the hospital while the clip passes three million views, finds her own signature on a deed recorded on her birthday, and meets Carlton's half-brother in the parking garage, who says Diane did the same thing to him.

The officers let me take my overnight bag and my purse and nothing else.

Carlton walked me to the porch, close enough that I could smell his cologne.

"Claire, call me tomorrow. We'll sort it out like adults."

I got into my car and drove to Riverbend Medical Center, because it was the only building I knew where nobody could ask me to leave.

I slept in the oncology on-call room with my shoes on.

Carlton texted me fourteen times before midnight.

The last one said: "Mom says you can have the weekend to get your things. Please don't be dramatic about it."

At two in the morning Teagan's video was at a million views.

By five it was past three million.

The caption said: "When the wife finds out she was never the main character. Pray for Jessa."

Someone had cut the clip so it started the moment I dropped the tiramisu.

Someone else had slowed down my face when I said "Take that off."

I read the first forty comments and then I stopped, because they were all about me.

At six-thirty my charge nurse knocked and came in with two coffees.

She had been my friend for five years, and she looked at me gently.

"Claire, administration called."

"About the video?"

"About the foundation. Diane Weatherby chairs the board for the gala, and she asked, very nicely, whether you could take a week."

"A week of what?"

"Leave. Paid, if you say yes. I'm so sorry."

I said yes.

I did not cry.

I sat on the narrow bed with her coffee going cold in my hand and opened the county recorder's website on my phone.

It took four tries to find the address.

Kenwick Road, the brick Tudor with the apple tree my mother planted the year I was born.

Under it, a document, recorded three weeks ago.

Quitclaim deed.

Grantor: Claire A. Weatherby.

Grantee: Weatherby Family Holdings, LLC.

I opened the page.

There was my signature at the bottom, round and quick, the way I sign charts.

Under it was a blue notary stamp with a name I had never seen and a date I knew.

The fourteenth of September.

My birthday.

Carlton had taken me to dinner at the Italian place on High Street and brought a folder to the table.

"Homeowner's insurance renewal," he said. "It's boring. Sign where the pink tabs are, and then no more work talk."

I had signed six pages in four minutes with a glass of wine at my elbow.

He had flipped each page for me and kept his thumb on the top corner.

I had thought it was sweet.

I read the deed again.

My mother left me one thing in this world that was mine alone, and I had handed it over between the breadsticks and the entrées.

I put my forehead on my knees for about a minute.

Then I stood up, found my badge on the chair and walked out to the parking garage to get my charger from the car.

A man was leaning against a gray pickup three spaces down from mine.

He wore a work jacket with a county fire department patch on the sleeve, and he straightened up as I came out of the stairwell.

He was tall, with dark hair and a pale scar that cut through his left eyebrow.

I had seen him once before, six years ago, at the back of the church during my wedding.

He left before the cake.

Carlton had said afterward that his half-brother was bitter and not worth the energy, and that he always left things early.

"Mrs. Weatherby," he said.

"I'm calling security."

"That's fair. I'll wait."

He did not move.

He held his hands out where I could see them, empty and open, and the left one had a long scrape across the back of the knuckles.

"I'm Gabe. I'm Carlton's brother."

"Half."

"Half," he said. "I watched the stream last night. I was on shift, and one of the guys put it on the station TV."

"Then you know I'm having the worst week of my life, so say what you came to say."

He looked at the badge in my hand and then at my face.

"I think they got you with a deed."

I didn't answer, and he took that for what it was.

"I thought so," he said. "Because Diane did the same thing to me eleven years ago, and she used the same notary."

He took a folded paper out of his jacket and held it out.

"I have her name."

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