Chapter 4 - THE TICKETS TO NOWHERE
I stared at the psychiatric intake form, the letters swimming before my eyes.
Patient: Catherine Rose Lawson. Diagnosis: Severe substance abuse relapse, paranoid delusions. Committal Status: Involuntary, via spousal proxy.
The air was sucked completely out of my lungs. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.
He was going to lock me away.
Twenty-five years of marriage. Twenty-five years of cooking his dinners, washing his clothes, listening to his complaints about work, loving him through every hardship. And his final act as my husband was to legally kidnap me, throw me in a locked ward, and steal everything my mother had left me.
“You monster,” I whispered, the words scraping against my dry throat.
Peter stopped struggling against Dante’s men. His face morphed from panic into a cold, clinical mask. It was a face I didn't recognize.
“I was doing it for your own good, Catherine,” Peter said, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’ve been unstable for months. Ever since your mother died, you’ve been wandering around the house, crying, acting completely irrational. The facility in New York is world-class. You need professional help.”
“I need help because my mother died!” I screamed, tears finally spilling hot and fast down my cheeks. “I was grieving! That’s what normal people do, Peter! They cry!”
Olivia grabbed the edge of the cocktail table to steady herself. She looked at the first-class ticket to Geneva.
“You were leaving tonight,” Olivia said, her voice hollow. “Right after my reception. You were going to put Mom in a mental hospital tomorrow, but you were flying to Switzerland tonight. Who was supposed to commit her?”
Peter didn't answer.
“I asked you a question, Dad!” Olivia shrieked, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceilings.
Dante stepped forward, his massive frame blocking the chandelier light. “Let me guess,” he said softly. “The proxy signature. The one that allows someone else to execute the committal when the husband is out of the country.”
Dante reached into the folder and pulled out the last page. He held it up.
The proxy signature belonged to Eleanor Vance.
Eleanor took a step backward, her emerald gown catching on a chair. “I am his legal counsel regarding estate matters. It is a standard protective measure for an incapacitated spouse.”
“She’s not incapacitated!” Olivia cried out. “She’s sober! She’s been sober for fourteen years! You both made me think she was drinking again!”
The pieces clicked together in my mind with terrifying speed.
That was why Peter had been pouring out the wine in our kitchen for the last two weeks, leaving the empty bottles in the recycling bin. That was why he had called Olivia crying, saying I was hiding liquor. He was building a paper trail. He was manufacturing a relapse so no one would question my sudden involuntary committal.
“Why Switzerland, Peter?” Dante asked, his voice low and dangerous. “A man doesn’t flee to Geneva unless he’s moving money. A lot of money. More than just a little house on Maple Street.”
Peter clamped his mouth shut.
Eleanor grabbed her evening bag. “This is absurd. I am leaving. You have no legal right to detain me.”
She shoved past Marco, her heels clicking aggressively against the marble. But as she yanked her arm away, her silk clutch slipped from her grasp. It hit the floor, spilling its contents across the polished stone.
Lipstick. A compact mirror. A set of keys.
And a heavy, gold monogrammed lighter.
I stopped breathing.
I knew that lighter. I knew the weight of it. I knew the intricate engraving of the letters P.L. on the side.
I had bought it for Peter in Paris for our tenth wedding anniversary. He had lost it eight years ago. He told me he left it in a taxi in Chicago during a business trip. He had apologized profusely, knowing how much I had saved to buy it for him.
Slowly, I walked forward. I bent down and picked up the gold lighter. It was polished. Well-used.
I looked up at Eleanor.
Her face was entirely drained of color.
I turned to Peter. He was staring at the lighter in my hand as if it were a live grenade.
“You told me you wanted a divorce because of a woman at your office,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You said it had been going on for eight months.”
I looked back at Eleanor, this woman who had sat by my mother’s deathbed. This woman who had hugged me at the funeral.
“Eight months,” I repeated. I held up the lighter. “You lost this eight years ago, Peter.”
Olivia let out a choked, devastated sob. She covered her mouth with both hands, realizing that her entire teenage life, every family vacation, every Christmas dinner, had been a lie.
Peter violently wrenched his shoulder, breaking free from one of the guards. He lunged toward Olivia, grabbing her by the wrist.
“We are leaving!” Peter roared. “Olivia, you are coming with me right now!”
Olivia screamed in pain as his grip tightened.
Before Peter could take a second step, Dante Valenti moved.
It was a blur of violence. Dante grabbed Peter by the throat, lifting him an inch off the floor, and slammed him backward onto the head table. Crystal glasses shattered. Silverware clattered to the floor.
Dante leaned in, his forearm pressing against Peter’s windpipe.
“I told you not to touch her,” Dante whispered.
May you like
Peter gasped for air, his face turning purple. He clawed at Dante’s arm, but it was like trying to move a steel beam.
“If... if you hurt me,” Peter choked out, spit flying from his lips. “The paper... the paper Olivia signed... goes into effect tomorrow. Catherine loses everything.”
