Suddenly realizing how awful I must look, I used the selfie camera on my phone to check my appearance before getting up to answer the door. Ugh. Blond curls sticking out in all directions, bags under my bloodshot eyes. I’d gotten so caught up in my research that I’d forgotten to even brush my hair or change out of the clothes I’d been wearing for more than twenty-four hours.
If I’d ever looked worse, I couldn’t remember. Maybe in the days after 9/11, which my subconscious mercifully blocked as soon as my pregnancy made itself known and I had to start acting like a human being for the sake of the baby.
Oh, well. If asking for legal help didn’t make it clear this wasn’t a booty call, my appearance definitely would. As long as Steve didn’t take one look at me and run away, everything would be fine.
When I opened the door, Teddy’s friend held a bag of takeout in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other. He wore black slacks, a long-sleeved blue dress shirt, and a five-hundred-dollar tie. I strongly suspected he had a suit coat in his car and hoped he’d dressed up for court earlier, not for me. Maybe he had canceled other plans to be here.
His eyes widened when he took in my disheveled appearance. “What happened to you?” I stepped back to let him in, and he put one hand over my mouth. “Actually, don’t answer that yet. I’m not your lawyer, you’re not my client, and that means nothing you say to me is confidential. I’m going to need you to pay me $1 to retain my services before we can talk. And if you killed anyone, I don’t want to know.”
The way he took charge of the situation made me wish I’d been more attracted to this guy. “I didn’t kill anyone. There’s a hundred bucks on the counter to cover the food and your time.”
“My firm charges four hundred dollars an hour for my time.”
My stomach growled as if objecting to that exorbitant rate. “Well, then, I’ll write you a check. But first, grab a plate and I’ll tell you what happened. I’m starved.”
Over a plate of pad thai, I filled him in on Brett’s death. Steve knew I was a widow, of course, and that I had a teenager, but I hadn’t been ready to share the circumstances of Brett’s death with him the couple of times we went out. Apparently Teddy hadn’t told him, either. He expressed sympathy when I went over the details, but could tell he had no idea why I’d invited him over or what type of problem I was about to present.
When I mentioned that I’d run into a very-much-alive Brett, he choked on his wine. “Okay, now I get why you called me.”
“Yeah.” So much to say, so little clue where to start. “And I received the payout on a two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar life insurance policy after he died, plus a settlement from the September 11 Victim Compensation Fund.”
We sat for a beat while he let that sink in.
“If you’d known about this when you applied for those benefits, that would be a federal offense.”
“The comp fund money was only a few hundred dollars,” I said. “I’m happy to give it back. But I had no idea.”
“Are you also happy to repay the life insurance company? Because they’ll probably want their quarter of a million dollars back.”
The thought had crossed my mind, and I’d been pondering it for much of the afternoon. My gut reaction was, “Hell no, I’m not giving the money back!” But I suspected it wasn’t that simple. How could I in good conscience keep money I never should’ve had in the first place? What message would that send to Ethan?
Quincy Orthopedics did well. I wouldn’t be delighted to turn over a quarter of a million dollars to an insurance company, but it wasn’t impossible. And I could always take out a mortgage on the house and pay the debt off over time. Still, that sucked. What if I didn’t have the money? Or didn’t particularly feel like using it for that purpose?
“Can I make Christa pay it?” Suing wasn’t ideal, and it would probably wind up putting us both on the news, but it still beat turning over that kind of money.
“You could, but there are a couple of problems. For one, he doesn’t have any assets in the United States, so you’d have to sue in Canada, which means you’d need to consult with a Canadian lawyer. But also—Brett Cooper didn’t spend that money. Neither did Christa McCall. Jess Cooper is the named beneficiary of the life insurance policy, she’s the one who benefited from her husband’s death, and she’s the one who, it now turns out, wasn’t entitled to that money. You’re lucky they can’t take back your medical degree.”
A sound of frustration escaped me, but I knew when I’d been beaten. If I had to pay it back, there was nothing I could do. Wasn’t I always talking to Ethan about accepting his responsibilities and doing the right thing? It wouldn’t be right to keep that money. Even if none of this was my fault. Damn it.
My shoulders sagged and I drained my glass, then refilled it. “I’ll call them as soon as Brett’s declared alive again. But I don’t even know where to start. How do you undo a death certificate? Are we still married?”
“As long as Brett Cooper is dead, you’re legally a widow. So, the first step is to file with the probate courts to have the death certificate set aside. That’s not terribly complicated, but the judge is going to need to see DNA. If Christa won’t cooperate, you need a court order. But as soon as he’s alive, you’re still married. You’ll have to get a divorce. This type of case could get expensive.”
It didn’t escape my notice that Steve kept saying “he” when referring to Christa, even though I’d made a point to use “she.”
“I don’t think Christa will fight a divorce. After all, she doesn’t benefit from a long-distance marriage to a woman in the U.S., either.”
“It will reduce costs significantly if he agrees,” Steve said. “But what if he doesn’t? What if he claims that he’s entitled to half of everything you’ve earned while he was dead? Are you willing to hand it over to him?”
Once upon a time, I’d have given Brett every penny I had if he asked. But now? I didn’t even know Christa, not really. Nor did I want to know the type of person who would abandon a spouse then ask for half the money they earned during the resulting separation.
“No fucking way,” I said grimly. “Especially not if I have to fork over money to the insurance company because of her.”
“So that could make things more complicated,” he said. “The other issue is, because of our personal history, I don’t think I’m the best person to represent you here. I’m happy to refer you to a friend, and we can talk more about the general legalities of your case, but I shouldn’t represent a woman I’ve dated, however casually, in a divorce against her husband. Especially because I’m a contracts attorney.”
I smiled at him. “I completely forgot about that. I guess it’s like how people hear I’m a doctor, and they’ll randomly open their shirts to show me a mole or something. And I’m like ‘… not an oncologist, but thanks for the peek at your tits.’”
Steve chuckled. “Your occupational hazard sounds more interesting than mine.”
“Maybe, but it’s also super awkward.”
“This may not be the most sensitive question,” he said, “but I’m not sure how else to put it. Before you get into this, before you revoke the death certificate and repay the money and notify the insurance company: are you absolutely, one hundred percent beyond all shadow of a doubt positive that the person you encountered is really Brett Cooper and not some scam artist taking advantage of the fact that there’s a resemblance? Do you know that this person used to be a man?”
“She didn’t exactly seek me out. I don’t know any way she could have planned that meeting,” I said.
“If I were the type of person who would pull this kind of scam, I could arrange an accidental encounter. For all you know, this woman was waiting around for hours for the opportunity to run into you.”
“I don’t think so,” I said slowly. “The look of shock in her eyes when I recognized her seemed genuine. Besides, the voice, the mannerisms, the eyes… it was Brett. I know it sounds insane, but Christa is my husb
and. I felt it in my bones.”
“As a lawyer, I’d strongly advise you to get a DNA test or otherwise seek confirmation. I know you feel like you’ve rediscovered your dead husband, but imagine the consequences if you’re wrong. And as a fellow parent, I’d suggest getting that confirmation before you tell Ethan. Imagine the psychological harm you could do if you tell him that his father is alive and well, living as a woman in Canada, and it turns out to be a scam.”
Yikes. I hadn’t even thought of that. Christa was Brett. Or was she? Would someone go to all this trouble to scam me? She hadn’t asked for anything, other than the chance to meet Ethan, who she didn’t know about until I mentioned him. Unless that’s what she wanted me to believe.
I didn’t even know how to confirm her identity. Ask her for a DNA sample? I didn’t want to offend her, but Steve had a point.
“That’s a good idea. Thanks.”
“Speaking of psychological damage,” he said. “How do you feel about all of this? What’s it like to know that the person you pledged to spend the rest of your life with not only betrayed your life and your trust, but was hiding this huge secret?”
Something in his tone grated at me, but I took another sip of wine and reminded myself how pissed I was to find out my husband faked his death. It was only normal for other people to be curious. “Honestly… I think I’m still in shock. I’m pissed, I’m confused, I’m frustrated, I’m angry, I’m sad that he didn’t trust me enough to tell me he’d decided to run away, I’m sad that my son never got to meet his father—”
“Not to mention, it’s fucked up to find out that the person you thought you knew was a total fucking weirdo,” Steve said.
I froze, my wine glass halfway to my mouth. “I wouldn’t use that phrase.”
“Why not? I mean, I didn’t go to medical school, but it always seemed to me that feeling like your whole body was against you was some kind of mental problem. That the solution wasn’t painful and expensive surgery, but a psychiatrist and lots of therapy.” With every word he spoke, my opinion of him dropped further. “Personally, I think you should take Ethan to get checked out. If all this is true, then you want to make sure Brett didn’t pass this nuttiness onto his kid.”
I set my wine glass down and rose to my feet, rage simmering in my veins. Where had Teddy found this guy? Did he know what a bigot he was? “Thanks for coming by, Steve, but I’m afraid it’s been a long and draining day. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
The words were pleasant enough, but the smile on his face dropped at the look on my face. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you…”
“How could I possibly be offended by the insinuation that there’s something wrong with being transgender? That my best friend and first love is somehow broken, in addition to my son? By your intentional misgendering of Christa since you arrived? And by the outdated and offensive language you used to convey both?”
Steve’s reaction wasn’t rare, by any means. But I’d been right not to get involved with this guy, not to let him get to know my child and share his narrow-minded ideas. He wasn’t someone I wanted in my life, spreading that poison. Sure, I was pissed that Brett left me, but that didn’t make him a weirdo or a freak or anything. A bad husband? Yes. A bad person? No fucking way.
“Hey, Jess, I just meant that any guy would have to be nuts to let you go.” Steve reached for me, but I stepped back.
“Are you fucking serious right now? You insult me, and the man I loved, then you hit on me? Get out before I throw you out.”
Steve started to say something else, then wisely thought better of it. I stood my ground, practically shaking with rage, glaring until he turned and walked out of the house.
“Thanks for dinner,” he said. “I’ll email you a few names tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother,” I said. “I can find a lawyer on my own.”
He didn’t answer.
A moment later, the front door closed. I didn’t move until a car door slammed, the engine roared to life, and headlights moved across the yard as the car backed down the driveway. My blood boiled, pounding through my veins until I worried I might explode.
For what felt like hours, I sat, seething, rage billowing out of my pores. Finally, I felt like I might only scream for a long time rather than forever. I picked up the phone, prepared to chew Teddy out for introducing me to Steve in the first place until he hung up on me, but something stopped me. Teddy wasn’t the bad guy here. He wasn’t the one I was mad at. Steve was a convenient target for my rage, but he also wasn’t the reason I still needed to sort through my feelings. And my momentary anger at Steve’s narrow-mindedness was nothing compared to the tornado of emotions I’d been through in the past thirty-six hours.
Instead, I took a deep breath, drained my glass yet again, and sent a message to Christa. Steve might be an ass, but he wasn’t stupid, and one thing he’d said resonated with me. I needed to pursue it.
Do you have time to chat?
Chapter 14
As soon as I sent the message, my computer started ringing. Christa’s face filled the video screen so fast, she must’ve been waiting by her phone, hoping for a text.
“I’m so glad you messaged me,” she said. “I thought it would be a lot longer before I heard from you.”
“Don’t count your chickens. I haven’t forgiven you yet,” I said.
“That’s reasonable. So what’s up?”
“This has been a huge shock,” I began.
“I know.”
“Shhh. Let me say what I need to say.”
“Okay, sorry.” The long “o” in the word made me smile. My Brett, turned into a Canadian. I wonder if he even noticed the accent. She.
“Anyway, I have a son to think about. The father he’s always known is dead, so before I bring someone new into his life, I need to be really, really sure. I know you could file for custody or visitation, but that means coming to America and outing yourself, and I think we can work things out before it gets that far.”
“I’d never try to take him away from you like that.”
The Brett I knew certainly wouldn’t have, but who was this person, anyway?
“That’s good, because I’d drag things out until Ethan turned eighteen, wasting your time and money.”
Her face fell. I hadn’t meant to be quite so confrontational. I forced myself to soften my voice as I said, “What I’m trying to say is, I need proof. I could get a paternity test, but that also takes time. Tell me something only Brett and I would know. Tell me a story about us. Even though I feel in my bones that you used to be my Brett… I need to know it in my brain. I’m a scientist, and I need evidence. Tell me a story.”
Part of me worried that she’d get insulted, hang up, and I’d never hear from her again. But if that was the case, then this could just be some bizarre fluke. I could spend tomorrow on the beach, mourning my husband, convince myself today was a dream or something, and go back to work the next day like none of this ever happened.
She tapped one long red fingernail against her mouth before she started to speak. “I’m happy to reminisce with you all day long, but first, can I tell you another story from when we were kids? Something I never told you?”
It seemed like an odd request, since it wouldn’t really prove that she was who she claimed to be. “Why?”
“Trust me.”
If she was who she said she was, the story would reveal something important, or she wouldn’t be telling it. If she wasn’t Brett, I’d only waste another five minutes of my life before terminating the call and blocking her number. There wasn’t much to lose.
“Sure,” I said.
“As a kid, Brad was always after me to ‘be a man,’ which is funny, all things considered. Maybe on some level, he sensed how I really felt. I don’t know.”
I smiled at her. “Really?”
“Yeah, there was this one day, I was standing in my room in front of the mirror, looking at my body. I
was thinking about how we’d just had sex for the first time, about how that was supposed to make me feel like more of a man, but I really didn’t. How your dad would cut my balls off if he knew.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Guess he could’ve saved you some money in the long run, huh?”
She rolled her eyes, and immediately I regretted my insensitive comment. “Anyway, I stood there, looking at my naked body. My football player’s build, my tapered waist, narrow hips. Thinking about how much you envied those things, even though you had the perfect body, with your curvy hips and full breasts.”
Self-consciously, I looked down. After giving birth, my already-large breasts had never returned to their original size. After long days on my feet, my lower back throbbed with the intensity of a thousand drums. I’d trade these boobs in a heartbeat for a solid B cup. “I guess we always want what we can’t have.”
“The grass is always greener.” Christa agreed. “So I was standing there, cock pushed back between my legs, glaring at my chest hair, wondering if I could rip it all out. And in comes Brad, bursting through the door to tell me dinner’s ready.”
I chuckled, imaging Brad’s reaction to something like that. “Oh no! What happened?”
“First, he was like ‘Are you checking yourself out like that dude in Silence of the Lambs?’ Which of course I hadn’t seen yet, but it made sense later. Anyway, I told him to get the fuck out, and he gave me this speech instead. I still remember it. ‘You want to know what you’d look like as a girl, whatever. That’s cool, I guess. But you gotta keep that shit to yourself. Guys get beat up for wearing chicks’ clothes. They get killed.’”
Tears filled her eyes, and she looked down, away from the camera. There was much more to this story, but it wasn’t relevant to verifying her identity, and it was up to Christa to decide if she wanted to tell me. I waited, sipping my wine while she composed herself.
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