Chapter 6 - The Exorcism
At 2:00 p.m. on Friday, a black police cruiser pulled up to the driveway of 42 Elm Street.
I stood on the front porch, wrapped in a thick wool coat, watching as Caleb stepped out of the passenger seat. Beside him was Deputy Sheriff Miller—a tall, stern man with a sidearm holstered at his belt.
Caleb looked smaller than he ever had. He wasn't wearing his tailored suits; he was wearing jeans, a black jacket, and running shoes. He carried three empty duffel bags over his shoulder.
He didn't look at me as he walked up the porch steps. His eyes were fixed on the ground.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Holloway," Deputy Miller said respectfully, tipping his hat. "We have four hours to supervise the retrieval of Mr. Holloway's personal belongings, as per court order."
"Thank you, Deputy," I said calmly. "The door is open."
Caleb walked into the foyer. He stopped, looking around the house he had lived in for twenty-one years.
The air was different now. I had spent the morning opening every window, letting the crisp November breeze blow through the rooms, flushing out the lingering scent of jasmine perfume and stale deceit.
Caleb walked up the stairs to the master bedroom, the deputy following three paces behind him. I stayed downstairs in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of cold water.
Ten minutes later, I heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs.
Caleb walked into the kitchen carrying two stuffed duffel bags. He set them down near the back door and looked at Deputy Miller.
"Deputy, can I have three minutes alone with my wife?" Caleb asked, his voice raw and raspy. "Just three minutes to discuss personal matters."
"Order of protection is in effect, Mr. Holloway," Deputy Miller said firmly. "You are not permitted to engage in private conversation without counsel present."
"It's alright, Deputy," I said, stepping forward. "I'm comfortable speaking to him with you standing right here."
Deputy Miller nodded, stepping back into the hallway, keeping his eyes fixed on Caleb.
Caleb looked at me, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
"You destroyed me, Claire," Caleb whispered, his voice trembling with a terrifying blend of rage and grief. "You humiliated me in front of my partners, my lawyer, the judge... You put my life on display like I was a criminal."
"You are a criminal, Caleb," I said softly, looking him straight in the eye. "You stole from our joint accounts. You committed fraud. You lied under oath to a judge."
"I loved her!" Caleb suddenly yelled, his composure snapping like a dry twig. "Is that what you want to hear?! I loved her! I've been unhappy for years, Claire! You were always so perfect, so controlled, so damned organized! You managed our life like a corporation! Tessa made me feel alive!"
The words hung in the air between us—sharp, cruel, designed to wound me at my deepest core.
I didn't flinch. I didn't cry.
"If you loved her, Caleb," I said, my voice as calm as still water, "why didn't you just ask for a divorce?"
Caleb blinked, caught off guard by the quiet logic of the question.
"Why didn't you pack your bags, sign the papers, and walk away like a man?" I continued, stepping closer to him. "I'll tell you why. Because you were a coward. You wanted the safety of my labor, my housekeeping, my emotional stability, and our beautiful home—while you secretly enjoyed your little fantasy life in Back Bay with our neighbor."
Caleb opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
"You didn't want to choose," I said. "You wanted to have everything. And because you were greedy, now you have nothing."
I pointed toward the back door.
"Take your bags, Caleb. Your four hours are up."
Caleb stared at me for three long seconds. For the first time in twenty-one years, he saw that the woman standing in front of him could no longer be manipulated, charmed, or gaslit. The woman he had spent two decades subtly breaking down had stepped out of his shadow.
He grabbed his duffel bags, turned on his heel, and walked out the door.
Deputy Miller followed him out, locking the heavy oak door behind them.
May you like
I walked into the living room. I picked up the grey wool blanket from the back of the sofa. I walked out to the backyard, threw the blanket into the metal fire pit, poured a splash of lighter fluid over it, and struck a match.
I stood there in the quiet cold, watching the grey wool catch fire, sending sparks and pale smoke up into the clear autumn sky.
