PART 2 — THE NAME HE SHOULD HAVE RECOGNIZED
The voice came from the dining-room doorway.
“Enough.”
Everyone turned.
Margaret Hale stood there with one hand still wrapped around her wineglass.
She was sixty-two, silver-haired, perfectly composed, and one of the founding partners at Travis’s law firm.
More importantly, she had watched the entire thing.
Her eyes moved from my face to Travis’s hand gripping my phone.
Then to Judith, who was still standing between me and the chair.
“Give your wife her phone, Travis.”
His jaw tightened.
“Margaret, Claire is emotional. She nearly fell and—”
“She is seven months pregnant, doubled over in pain, and asking for an ambulance.”
The room behind her went silent.
Travis forced a laugh.
“I’m taking her to the hospital.”
“Then why are you holding her phone?”
That question changed the room.
Until that second, the guests had been doing what people often do when something uncomfortable happens in someone else’s home.
Looking away.
Pretending not to notice.
Convincing themselves there must be an explanation.
Now they were looking directly at Travis.
He noticed.
And Travis cared deeply about being watched.
He immediately softened his voice.
“Claire, sweetheart, you’re frightening everyone.”
Sweetheart.
I stared at him.
Ten minutes earlier, he had ignored me while I carried plates around his mother’s kitchen.
Now that his managing partner was watching, suddenly I was sweetheart.
Another wave of pain ripped through my abdomen.
I bent forward.
Margaret dropped her glass onto the sideboard and rushed toward me.
“Call 911,” she snapped.
Someone in the dining room reached for a phone.
Travis raised his voice.
“Nobody needs to call an ambulance!”
The room froze again.
Margaret slowly turned toward him.
“Why?”
Travis blinked.
“What?”
“Why are you so determined to prevent your pregnant wife from receiving emergency medical attention?”
For the first time that evening, Travis had no smooth answer.
Judith found one for him.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Claire has been dramatic throughout this entire pregnancy.”
I looked at her.
My entire pregnancy?
I had worked until six months.
I had driven myself to nearly every appointment.
I had cooked.
Cleaned.
Paid bills.
Hosted dinners.
Ignored swollen feet.
Ignored exhaustion.
Ignored the growing suspicion that something inside my marriage had gone terribly wrong.
But according to Judith, I was dramatic.
Margaret stared at her in disbelief.
“She just struck the counter.”
“She stumbled,” Judith said coldly.
“Because you blocked her.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You moved directly in front of her.”
Judith’s face changed.
Just slightly.
But I saw it.
So did Margaret.
And suddenly I realized something else.
There were witnesses.
For years, the worst parts of my marriage had happened privately.
A cutting comment in the car.
A bank password changed without warning.
A family visit mysteriously canceled.
A conversation twisted until I apologized for something Travis had done.
Tonight was different.
Tonight he had an audience.
And he had forgotten that audiences could testify.
“Claire.”
Margaret knelt beside me.
“Are you bleeding?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can you walk?”
“I think so.”
Another cramp came.
This one was stronger.
I gasped.
My knees nearly buckled.
Margaret caught my arm.
“Call the ambulance now!”
Someone finally did.
I heard a man in the dining room giving Judith’s address to the dispatcher.
Travis exploded.
“Who did that?”
Nobody answered.
“Cancel it.”
Margaret straightened.
“No.”
“This is my house.”
Actually, it was Judith’s house.
But nobody corrected him.
“This is my family,” Travis continued.
“And I will handle my wife.”
Something inside me went cold.
Handle my wife.
Not help.
Not protect.
Not comfort.
Handle.
That was how he thought of me.
Like a difficult case.
A troublesome client.
A problem that needed controlling.
I held out my hand.
“My phone.”
Travis looked at me.
“No.”
“Give me my phone.”
“We’ll discuss this later.”
“No, Travis.”
My voice was quiet.
That seemed to anger him more than screaming would have.
He stepped closer.
“Do you really want to create a scene in front of everyone?”
I almost laughed.
I was seven months pregnant, shaking against a kitchen counter while strangers called an ambulance because my husband refused.
And he was worried that I was creating a scene.
“I want my phone.”
His expression hardened.
For one second, the charming attorney disappeared.
“You need to think carefully about what you do next.”
Margaret heard him.
So did at least six people standing behind her.
“What exactly does that mean?” she asked.
Travis ignored her.
He looked only at me.
“You know how these things work, Claire.”
“What things?”
“Accusations.”
My stomach tightened again.
He continued.
“You get emotional. You say something you regret. Suddenly everyone is asking questions. Statements get taken. People misunderstand.”
“You took my phone when I asked for an ambulance.”
“I was helping you.”
“You refused to call one.”
“I offered to drive you.”
“You wouldn’t let me call anyone.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Be careful.”
There it was.
The threat beneath the concern.
I had heard versions of it for years.
Be reasonable.
Don’t embarrass me.
Think about what people will say.
You don’t understand how this works.
Tonight, perhaps because of the pain, I finally stopped being afraid of the words.
“Or what?”
Travis stared at me.
Judith stepped forward.
“Claire, stop this nonsense.”
I ignored her.
“Or what, Travis?”
He glanced toward Margaret and lowered his voice.
“I’m a lawyer.”
The sentence almost sounded absurd.
Almost.
Then he leaned closer.
“You aren’t going to win.”
The room became completely silent.
Not quiet.
Silent.
Even Judith looked startled.
Perhaps because Travis had finally said aloud what he had always believed.
Our marriage was a case.
I was the opposing side.
And he intended to win.
I stared into the face of the man I had slept beside for eight years.
The father of the baby inside me.
The man I once believed would protect me from the world.
And for the first time, I felt absolutely nothing for him.
No hope.
No confusion.
No desire to explain.
Only clarity.
I held his gaze.
“Then call my father.”
Travis blinked.
“What?”
“Call my father.”
Judith laughed.
Actually laughed.
“Oh, please.”
Travis smirked.
“Your father?”
“Yes.”
“The retired old man who lives three states away?”
I said nothing.
He shook his head.
“This is unbelievable.”
“Call him.”
“Claire, what exactly do you think your father is going to do?”
Margaret’s face changed.
I noticed it immediately.
She was studying me.
Then Travis.
Then me again.
“What did you say your maiden name was?” she asked.
Travis looked irritated.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
Margaret ignored him.
“Claire?”
Another wave of pain hit.
I gripped the counter until it passed.
“Whitaker.”
Margaret went completely still.
Behind her, one of Travis’s colleagues frowned.
“Whitaker?”
I nodded.
Travis rolled his eyes.
“Yes, Whitaker. Her father’s Daniel Whitaker. Retired years ago. Claire has told me about him. Nice guy. Likes fishing. Makes terrible coffee.”
Margaret’s lips parted slightly.
“You’ve met him?”
“Several times.”
“And you never asked what he did?”
Travis shrugged.
“Some government legal work, I think.”
Nobody spoke.
Margaret looked as though she had just watched someone step onto railroad tracks without noticing the train.
“Travis,” she said carefully, “where exactly did you attend law school?”
His face reddened.
“What kind of question is that?”
“A relevant one.”
“Northwestern.”
“And you seriously do not know Daniel Whitaker?”
“I know Claire’s father.”
Margaret stared at him.
Then she gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Oh my God.”
Travis’s irritation sharpened.
“What?”
One of the younger attorneys in the doorway suddenly pulled out his phone.
His thumbs moved quickly.
Seconds later, his face drained of color.
He looked at me.
Then at Travis.
“Sir.”
Travis snapped toward him.
“What?”
The associate swallowed.
“I think you should give Mrs. Mercer her phone.”
Judith scoffed.
“Would everybody stop acting ridiculous?”
The young attorney turned his screen toward Margaret.
She barely glanced at it.
“I know who he is.”
My husband didn’t.
That was the extraordinary part.
For eight years, Travis had underestimated my family so completely that he had never spent five minutes learning who my father was.
My father never introduced himself as Judge Whitaker after retiring.
He never discussed famous cases at dinner.
He never decorated conversations with names of senators, attorneys general, judges, or law professors.
At home, he was simply Dad.
He grew tomatoes.
He repaired old clocks.
He called me every Sunday.
And apparently Travis had mistaken humility for insignificance.
The sirens became audible outside.
Travis heard them.
His face tightened.
“This has gone far enough.”
He turned toward the front hall.
“I’ll tell the paramedics there’s been a misunderstanding.”
“No,” I said.
He stopped.
“You’re not speaking for me again.”
His face changed.
I had never said those words before.
Not like that.
Not in front of witnesses.
He walked toward me.
Margaret stepped between us.
“Don’t.”
Travis stared at his managing partner.
“Excuse me?”
“Stay where you are.”
“You’re interfering in a private marital matter.”
“No,” Margaret said. “I’m watching a pregnant woman ask for medical assistance while her husband repeatedly tries to prevent her from getting it.”
“That is not what happened.”
“Good.”
Margaret nodded toward the dining room.
“Then you won’t mind that twelve people heard it.”
Travis looked past her.
For the first time, he seemed to notice the faces.
His colleagues.
His clients.
People he had invited because their admiration mattered to him.
Nobody was smiling anymore.
The doorbell rang.
Judith rushed toward the hallway.
“This is humiliating.”
I almost whispered,
“For who?”
She stopped.
Looked back at me.
And whatever she saw in my expression kept her from answering.
Two paramedics entered carrying equipment.
A third followed with a stretcher.
Everything moved quickly after that.
Questions.
Blood pressure.
Pulse.
Pain scale.
Gestational age.
Where did I strike the counter?
Had I experienced contractions before?
Any bleeding?
Any dizziness?
One paramedic placed a hand gently near my abdomen.
His expression became serious.
“We’re transporting.”
Travis stepped forward.
“I’ll come.”
“No.”
Everyone looked at me.
Including Travis.
He laughed once, as though I had made a joke.
“Claire.”
“I don’t want you in the ambulance.”
“I’m your husband.”
“I know.”
Two words.
That was all.
But they landed harder than anything else I had said.
His face went pale.
“Claire, stop.”
I turned toward the paramedic.
“Can Margaret come with me?”
Margaret answered before he could.
“Yes.”
Travis grabbed my wrist.
Not violently.
Not enough to leave a dramatic bruise.
Just enough to remind me who he thought was in control.
“Do not do this.”
I looked down at his hand.
Then back at him.
“Let go.”
He didn’t.
Margaret’s voice sharpened.
“Travis.”
He released me.
One of the paramedics noticed.
So did everyone else.
I was helped onto the stretcher.
As they began rolling me toward the front door, I remembered something.
“My phone.”
Travis was still holding it.
For a second, I thought he might refuse again.
Then Margaret extended her hand.
“Give it to me.”
He handed it over.
She placed it in mine.
The screen showed nine missed calls.
Three were from my mother.
Six were from my father.
My heart stopped.
Dad almost never called repeatedly.
I opened the most recent message.
CALL ME NOW.
I stared at it.
Then another message appeared.
CLAIRE, I NEED TO SPEAK WITH YOU BEFORE YOU SPEAK TO TRAVIS.
I read it twice.
Pain and confusion collided inside me.
Why?
How did Dad know something was wrong?
I pressed call.
Travis saw his name appear on the screen.
“Seriously?”
The phone rang once.
My father answered immediately.
“Claire?”
His voice was different.
Not Dad-at-Sunday-dinner.
Not the man who asked whether I remembered to rotate my tires.
This voice was controlled.
Precise.
The voice I had heard only a handful of times growing up.
“Dad.”
“Where are you?”
“Judith’s house. An ambulance is taking me to the hospital.”
Silence.
Then,
“Why?”
I looked at Travis.
He stared back at me.
“I fell.”
“How?”
I hesitated.
My father heard the hesitation.
“Claire.”
“Judith blocked me when I tried to sit down. I stepped backward and hit the counter.”
Another silence.
“And Travis?”
“He took my phone when I tried to call an ambulance.”
Travis stepped forward.
“That is completely misleading.”
My father heard him.
“Is Travis there?”
“Yes.”
“Put me on speaker.”
Travis gave a short laugh.
“Wonderful.”
I touched the speaker icon.
My father’s voice filled the hallway.
“Travis.”
“Daniel.”
Travis sounded almost amused.
“I’m sorry Claire has dragged you into this. She’s upset and making everything sound much worse than it—”
“Stop talking.”
The effect was immediate.
Travis froze.
I had never heard my father speak to him that way.
Apparently neither had he.
“Excuse me?”
“I said stop talking.”
Judith marched closer.
“How dare you speak to my son like that?”
My father ignored her.
“Claire, are paramedics with you?”
“Yes.”
“Are you leaving now?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do not leave the hospital with Travis.”
Travis laughed again, but there was uncertainty in it now.
“Daniel, with all due respect, you have absolutely no authority here.”
My father was quiet for two seconds.
Then he said,
“That sentence tells me you still don’t know who you’re speaking to.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
The young associate stared at the floor.
Travis looked around.
“What is everyone acting so strange about?”
My father continued calmly.
“My name is Daniel A. Whitaker.”
Travis frowned.
“Yes. I know your name.”
“Apparently not.”
The young associate whispered,
“Travis.”
“Not now.”
“You need to listen.”
Travis snapped,
“To what?”
The associate lifted his phone.
On the screen was an old official photograph.
My father in judicial robes.
Travis looked at it.
Then looked again.
The color vanished from his face.
“No.”
Nobody spoke.
He took the phone from the associate.
Scrolled.
Stopped.
Scrolled again.
I watched disbelief turn into recognition.
Then recognition into fear.
“Judge Whitaker?”
My father’s voice came through my phone.
“Retired Judge Whitaker.”
Travis stared at me.
“You never told me.”
I almost couldn’t believe those were his first words.
Not Are you all right?
Not I’m sorry.
Not I made a mistake.
You never told me.
“I introduced you to him,” I said.
“You said he was your father!”
“He is.”
“You never said—”
“That he was important?”
Travis stopped.
I saw the exact second he realized how that sounded.
My father heard it too.
“I think,” Dad said quietly, “you have just explained more about my daughter’s marriage than you intended to.”
Travis’s mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
Then my father said something that made Margaret look sharply toward the phone.
“Travis, before you say another word tonight, I suggest you consider your professional obligations very carefully.”
Travis swallowed.
“Are you threatening me?”
“No.”
My father’s voice remained perfectly calm.
“I am warning you not to make your situation worse.”
“My situation?”
“Yes.”
Travis attempted to recover his confidence.
“This is a family disagreement.”
“It stopped being merely a family disagreement when my pregnant daughter requested emergency medical assistance and you took away her phone.”
“I was trying to calm her down.”
“There are witnesses.”
Travis looked around the room.
Nobody met his eyes.
Then my father said,
“And apparently witnesses are going to matter quite a bit.”
That sentence frightened Travis.
I could see it.
“Why?”
My father didn’t answer immediately.
Instead, he spoke to me.
“Claire, go to the hospital. Your mother and I are leaving now.”
“You’re three states away.”
“Not for long.”
“Dad—”
“Claire.”
His voice softened.
“I should have asked harder questions a long time ago.”
My throat tightened.
“This isn’t your fault.”
“No. But what happens next is going to require you to trust me.”
Travis stepped closer.
“What exactly does that mean?”
My father’s voice became cold again.
“It means my daughter needs medical care. Everything else can wait.”
The paramedics began rolling me toward the door.
Then Dad added,
“One more thing, Travis.”
Travis stared at the phone.
“What?”
“Do not enter Claire’s hospital room unless she specifically asks for you.”
“You can’t tell me whether I can see my wife.”
“No,” Dad replied.
“Claire can.”
I looked at Travis.
“You heard him.”
His expression twisted.
For a moment, I saw pure anger.
Then he remembered the witnesses.
The mask returned.
“Fine.”
He stepped aside.
I was rolled through the front door.
Cold December air struck my face.
Christmas lights blinked across Judith’s roof as though nothing had happened.
Margaret climbed into the ambulance beside me.
The doors closed.
For the first time all night, Travis could no longer reach me.
I thought that was the end of the worst part.
I was wrong.
At the hospital, an obstetrician examined me immediately.
Monitors were attached.
Blood was drawn.
An ultrasound technician arrived.
People spoke in careful medical language that frightened me more than panic would have.
Possible placental trauma.
Uterine irritability.
Contractions.
Observation.
Steroids if labor progressed.
Fetal monitoring.
I stared at the monitor showing my baby’s heartbeat.
Fast.
Steady.
Alive.
I began crying.
Margaret held my hand.
“You’re safe.”
I wanted to believe her.
Twenty minutes later, a nurse entered.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“Yes?”
“Your husband is outside.”
My entire body tensed.
“I don’t want him in here.”
“I understand.”
“He’s saying he has a legal right to receive information because he’s your spouse.”
Margaret stood.
“He does not have an unrestricted right to override the patient.”
The nurse nodded.
“We’ve already told him that.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course he was arguing.
Even now.
Even while our child was being monitored.
He had turned the hospital hallway into another courtroom.
The nurse hesitated.
“There’s something else.”
“What?”
“He brought another attorney.”
Margaret frowned.
“Who?”
“Mr. Steven Cross.”
Margaret’s face changed.
I recognized the name.
Steven Cross worked at Travis’s firm.
Not in family law.
Not in medical law.
In professional liability and internal investigations.
I looked at Margaret.
“Why would Travis bring him?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
That frightened me.
“Margaret?”
She walked toward the door and lowered her voice.
“Stay here.”
“What is happening?”
“I’m going to find out.”
She disappeared into the hallway.
Five minutes passed.
Then ten.
My contractions continued.
The baby’s heartbeat filled the room.
Finally, Margaret returned.
She closed the door behind her.
Her expression had completely changed.
“What?”
She looked at me.
“Claire, when you said Travis made expensive purchases he couldn’t explain…”
My stomach dropped.
“How do you know about that?”
“Your father called me.”
“What?”
“He recognized my name when you mentioned I was with you. We’ve known each other professionally for years.”
Of course they had.
Another connection Travis had never bothered discovering.
Margaret pulled a chair beside my bed.
“Your father asked me something very specific.”
“What?”
“Whether Travis ever asked you to sign documents you didn’t fully understand.”
I stared at her.
Memory arrived all at once.
Tax forms.
Refinancing papers.
Investment agreements.
Business disclosures.
Pages Travis would place in front of me while cooking dinner or leaving for work.
Just sign here.
Standard form.
Nothing important.
I felt suddenly cold.
“Yes.”
Margaret’s expression hardened.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
“Claire.”
“Dozens.”
She slowly exhaled.
“When was the most recent?”
“Last month.”
“What was it?”
“He said it was related to an investment account.”
“Did you read it?”
“No.”
“Did you keep a copy?”
“No.”
She looked toward the door.
“What?”
“Margaret, what is happening?”
Before she could answer, her phone buzzed.
She read the message.
Her face went pale.
“What?”
She turned the screen toward me.
It was from my father.
Six words.
DO NOT LET TRAVIS NEAR CLAIRE.
Then another message appeared.
I read it.
And suddenly the pain in my stomach was not the only thing making it difficult to breathe.
Dad had written:
WE FOUND HER SIGNATURE ON THE ACCOUNT.
I stared at Margaret.
“What account?”
She didn’t answer.
Her phone rang.
My father.
Margaret answered immediately.
“Daniel.”
She listened.
Her expression grew darker with every second.
Then she looked directly at me.
“I understand.”
She ended the call.
“What account?” I repeated.
Margaret pulled her chair closer.
“Claire, your father contacted an attorney he trusts after you called him.”
“Why?”
“Because apparently he’s been concerned about Travis for months.”
My heart began pounding.
“Concerned about what?”
She hesitated.
Then she said,
“Money.”
The room seemed to shrink around me.
“What money?”
“Your money.”
I stared at her.
“I don’t have that kind of money.”
Margaret’s eyes held mine.
“Apparently, you do.”
I almost laughed.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Your father says there is a trust.”
I stopped breathing.
“A what?”
“A trust established by your grandmother.”
I knew my grandmother had left money to my parents.
I knew there had been investments.
But my father had always told me the details would be discussed when necessary.
I had never asked.
Money never mattered much to me.
Apparently, it mattered very much to my husband.
“How much?”
Margaret hesitated.
That hesitation terrified me.
“How much, Margaret?”
“Your father didn’t give me the exact figure.”
“Then what did he say?”
She looked toward the closed hospital door.
“He said Travis may have been attempting to gain access to it.”
My mouth went dry.
“How?”
“The documents you signed.”
Suddenly every strange financial conversation from the previous two years rearranged itself in my memory.
The unexplained purchases.
The defensive answers.
The paperwork.
The sudden questions about my parents.
The casual interest in inheritance laws.
Travis had once asked whether my father had updated his estate plan.
I had laughed and asked why he cared.
He said he was making conversation.
He had not been making conversation.
A knock sounded at the door.
I jumped.
The nurse entered.
Behind her stood a hospital security officer.
“Mrs. Mercer?”
“Yes?”
“Your husband has been asked to leave the floor.”
“Why?”
The officer glanced at Margaret.
“He became aggressive with staff.”
My stomach tightened.
“Is he gone?”
“He’s downstairs.”
Then the officer added,
“But there’s something you should know.”
“What?”
“He’s telling people your father is using his former judicial position to intimidate him.”
Margaret gave a humorless laugh.
“Of course he is.”
The officer continued.
“He also says you are mentally unstable because of pregnancy complications and that any accusations you make tonight should not be considered reliable.”
For eight years, Travis had told me to be careful because he understood the law better than I did.
Now I finally understood what that meant.
He had always planned to use it against me.
I looked at Margaret.
“He’s building a defense.”
“Yes.”
“Already.”
“Yes.”
The fear inside me changed shape.
It became something sharper.
Something useful.
“What do I do?”
Margaret leaned forward.
“You tell the truth.”
“And then?”
“You document everything.”
“And then?”
Her eyes hardened.
“You stop protecting him.”
At 11:43 p.m., my contractions finally began slowing.
The doctor told me the baby appeared stable, but I would remain under observation overnight.
I cried from relief.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message from Travis.
CLAIRE, WE NEED TO FIX THIS BEFORE YOUR FATHER DESTROYS OUR FAMILY.
Another arrived.
YOU’RE CONFUSED AND EMOTIONAL.
Then another.
DO NOT SPEAK TO ANYONE UNTIL I GET BACK UPSTAIRS.
I stared at the screen.
Margaret stared too.
“Save those.”
I took screenshots.
Another message.
REMEMBER WHO PEOPLE WILL BELIEVE.
For years, that sentence would have frightened me.
That night, it almost made me smile.
Because for the first time, Travis did not understand the situation.
This was no longer his story to control.
I typed nothing.
I saved everything.
At 12:17 a.m., my father called again.
His voice sounded tired.
“We’re at the airport.”
“Dad, what did you find?”
He was silent.
“Please.”
“There’s more than one account.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I need you to prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
Another pause.
Then my father said,
“Claire, Travis didn’t marry you without knowing you had money.”
My blood ran cold.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
“He didn’t even know who you were.”
“He didn’t know who I was.”
Dad’s voice became quiet.
“But he knew exactly what you were worth.”
I couldn’t speak.
Then I remembered the private investigator.
The report I would not discover until much later.
Independent.
Financially stable.
Private.
Strong family relationships.
Everybody has a weakness.
“Dad…”
“There’s something else.”
I closed my eyes.
“What?”
“The attorney reviewing the documents found a company.”
“What company?”
“One registered eighteen months ago.”
I waited.
“The ownership documents carry your signature.”
“I never started a company.”
“I know.”
“Who owns it?”
My father went silent.
Then he answered.
“On paper?”
“Yes.”
“You and Travis.”
My heart hammered.
“And in reality?”
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”
I looked toward the dark hospital window.
Christmas lights glittered on distant buildings.
Behind me, the monitor kept recording the steady heartbeat of my unborn child.
Then Dad said the sentence that changed the entire direction of my life.
“Claire, the company received eleven transfers totaling $2.8 million.”
I stopped breathing.
“I don’t have $2.8 million.”
My father’s answer was barely above a whisper.
“You did.”
And somewhere downstairs, the man who had spent eight years convincing me that I was powerless had just realized I finally knew where to start looking.
What none of us knew yet was that the $2.8 million was only the first account.
And by sunrise, investigators would find something connected to Travis’s law firm that would turn our ugly Christmas night into something far bigger than a divorce…………..
TO BE CONTINUED IN PART 3…
