She began looking through drawers.
Eventually she found the envelope.
I had placed it on her side of the dresser.
Not legal service.
Michael had warned me not to play games with formal service procedures.
It was a copy.
On the front I had written only:
You should read this before morning.
Inside was the electronically filed petition.
A copy of our prenuptial agreement.
An inventory of my separately maintained property.
And a letter.
Lauren,
I saw Ryan's messages before you left today.
I know tonight was deliberate.
I am not going to fight you for someone who brought another man into our home to humiliate me.
I have retained counsel.
Do not remove, destroy or conceal financial records or property.
We will handle the rest through the proper process.
Daniel.
That was what ended the laughter.
At approximately 1:45, Lauren tried calling me.
My phone was on silent.
Then she came to the bedroom door.
She turned the handle.
Nothing happened.
The old lock had jammed.
I heard the first knock several minutes later.
“Daniel?”
I remained downstairs.
She hit the door harder.
“Daniel, open the door.”
I did not move at first because I didn't understand.
Then Ryan's voice came through the floor.
“Your stupid door is stuck.”
Lauren shouted again.
“DANIEL!”
That was when I got up.
I walked upstairs.
At the landing, I stood outside the master bedroom.
The door shook when Lauren pulled the handle.
“Open this now!”
“I didn't lock it.”
“Bullshit.”
“I didn't.”
“You locked us in here?”
“No.”
Ryan shouted from inside.
“Open the damn door.”
I tried the handle.
It didn't turn.
Then I remembered the repair request.
The lock had jammed.
Under any other circumstances, the situation might have been funny.
It wasn't.
I said, “Give me a minute.”
Lauren immediately began accusing me.
“You planned this.”
“The divorce? Yes.”
“The door.”
“No.”
“You’re insane.”
I walked downstairs, found the small tool kit I kept in the kitchen utility drawer and returned.
Ryan was hitting the door from inside.
“Stop doing that.”
“Then open it.”
“I’m trying.”
“Move away from the door.”
“Don't tell me what to do in my own—”
Ryan stopped.
I heard it.
So did Lauren.
My own house.
For the first time that night, he seemed to recognize the absurdity of the phrase.
I removed the trim screw near the old latch mechanism and used a flat screwdriver to release it manually.
The door opened.
Lauren stood there barefoot in her dress.
Ryan was behind her.
His shirt was unbuttoned.
The expression on Lauren’s face was completely different now.
No smirk.
No performance.
She held the papers in one hand.
“What is this?”
“You read it.”
“You filed for divorce?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Before you came home.”
Her eyes moved over my face.
“You knew?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“That doesn't matter.”
“You went through my phone?”
“No.”
“Then how?”
“The messages appeared on your screen.”
Ryan looked at Lauren.
“What messages?”