Chapter 9 - THE BOATHOUSE AT MIDNIGHT
The wooden boathouse creaked in the freezing wind.
Waves crashed against the rotting wooden pilings underneath.
I stepped inside, my boots crunching against scattered gravel and dry leaves.
The air smelled of damp wood, lake water, and old rust.
Standing near the open double doors overlooking the black water was Vincent.
He wore a heavy black overcoat.
His hands were shoved deep into his pockets.
He didn't turn around immediately as I walked in.
“You came alone,” he noted quietly.
“I’m never alone anymore, Vincent,” I said, stopping ten feet behind him.
“Federal marshals are stationed three hundred yards down the coast.”
Vincent slowly turned around.
In the pale moonlight streaming through the broken roof, his face looked haggard, aged by ten years in a single week.
“Why, Claire?” he asked, his voice cracking.
“Why did you destroy everything we built?”
“We didn't build anything, Vincent,” I replied, stepping forward.
“You built a corporation.”
“You built a schedule.”
“You built a prison and locked me inside it for fifteen minutes a day.”
“I provided for you!” he shouted, a flash of his old arrogance returning.
“You lived like a queen!”
“I lived like a ghost!” I screamed back, the grief and rage of losing our baby finally breaking through my cold exterior.
“I didn't want your money, Vincent!”
“I wanted my husband!”
“When I was bleeding in the back of an ambulance calling for help, your assistant told me I was outside my approved time!”
“And when I lost our baby—our child, Vincent—you walked another woman out of the hospital because her stomach hurt!”
Vincent stumbled backward as if struck by a physical blow.
His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“You gave me fifteen minutes a day,” I whispered, tears finally spilling down my cheeks.
“And I gave you the rest of your life back.”
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“Now, sign the final divorce decree.”
I pulled the legal papers from my coat pocket and held them out toward him.
