Chương 8
Chloe placed the soda on top of the vending machine.
“If I talk, everyone loses things.”
“You’ve already lost things.”
“My mom could lose the house.”
“Yes.”
“Savannah could lose school.”
“Possibly.”
“My dad could go to prison.”
“Possibly.”
“He paid for everything.”
Ruth nodded. “That was part of how he kept everyone arranged.”
Chloe looked toward the interview room.
“What happens if I don’t talk?”
“The case may continue with other evidence. Or parts of it may become harder to prove. I don’t know.”
“You’re not supposed to say that.”
“What am I supposed to say?”
“That the truth always comes out.”
Ruth snorted. “That would be a stupid thing to tell you.”
Despite herself, Chloe smiled.
Ruth picked up the unopened soda. “You want this?”
“No.”
“Good. It’s diet. Tastes like regret.”
They went home without completing the interview.
That evening, Mrs. Vance called during the approved supervised hour. Ruth remained in the kitchen while Chloe sat at the table with the phone on speaker.
Her mother began by asking about school. Chloe said it was fine.
She asked about the ribs. Chloe said they hurt less.
She asked whether Ruth cooked properly.
Ruth, standing at the stove, mouthed debatable.
Chloe looked down to hide a smile.
Then her mother said, “Your father’s employer placed him on leave.”
Chloe’s grip tightened around the phone.
“He didn’t tell me to say that,” Mrs. Vance added quickly. “I’m telling you because it affects the insurance.”
“Whose insurance?”
“Ours. Yours.”
“I’m covered through the state while I’m placed.”
A silence followed. Her mother had not expected Chloe to know that.
“Temporarily,” Mrs. Vance said.
“Okay.”
“The mortgage is due next week.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because you’re part of this family.”
Ruth turned down the burner.
Chloe watched steam rise from a pot of rice. “Do you think he hurt me?”
Her mother inhaled.
“Chloe, I think your father has a temper.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I think things happened that should not have happened.”
“Did he hurt me?”
“Yes.”
The word was small.
Chloe stopped breathing.
Her mother began to cry quietly.
Not the dramatic crying Chloe had imagined in fantasies where truth changed people. There was only a wet inhale, then an embarrassed sniff.
“How long did you know?” Chloe asked.
“I didn’t know everything.”
“How long?”
“I knew he was too rough sometimes.”
“How long?”
“After the bathroom mirror.”
Chloe was thirteen then.
Four years.
Her mother hurried on. “He promised it would never happen again. He started counseling through the church for a while. He stopped drinking whiskey. Things improved.”
“For who?”
“For all of us.”
“No.”
“Chloe, there were months when he didn’t—when nothing happened.”
“That was not improvement. That was waiting.”
Mrs. Vance went silent.
Ruth stared at the pot.
Chloe heard herself breathing through her nose, shallow and quick.
“Why didn’t you leave?”
“I had nowhere to go.”
“You have a sister in Michigan.”
“She has a two-bedroom apartment and three children.”
“You could have called police.”
“And said what? That my husband grabbed our daughter? That you had a bruise? You told the nurse you hit the door.”
“Because you told me to.”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
“I know.”
“No, you keep saying that like it means we were the same.”
Her mother made another small sound.
Chloe stood too quickly, one hand braced against the table. “You were the adult.”
“I know.”
“You had a car.”
“I know.”
“You had money.”
“Not my own.”
“You had a phone.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that.”
Ruth stepped closer but did not interrupt.
Mrs. Vance whispered, “I’m sorry.”
The apology was what Chloe had once wanted more than anything. Now it felt late and shapeless.
“What are you going to do?” Chloe asked.
“I don’t understand.”
“Now. What are you going to do now?”
Her mother hesitated.
That hesitation contained the answer.
“I’m trying to find a way through this,” she said.
“With him?”
“He’s still my husband.”
Chloe ended the call.
She walked upstairs, locked her bedroom door, and pushed the chair beneath the knob.
For the first time since arriving, she cried.
Not loudly. She pressed her face into the quilt because Ruth’s house was quiet and she did not want the sound to travel. Her ribs forced her to stop every few seconds. The broken rhythm made the crying feel ridiculous, almost mechanical.
After a while, someone sat on the floor outside the door.
Ruth did not knock.
“I burned the rice,” she said.
Chloe wiped her face against the quilt.
“It’s impressive,” Ruth continued. “The bottom may qualify as building material.”
Chloe waited.
“I’m ordering noodles. I need to know whether you object to mushrooms.”
“I hate them.”
“Excellent. A clear policy position.”
Ruth remained outside until the food arrived.
Three days later, Detective Morgan called to say Savannah had surrendered the old phone through an attorney.
Chloe was in the school library during study period. She listened with one finger pressed against her uninjured ear.
“Did you see the picture?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“How bad is it?”
Morgan paused. “It’s consistent with what you described to Luis.”
“I didn’t describe everything.”
“No.”
“Are there messages?”
“There are messages relevant to the investigation. I can’t discuss details yet.”
“From my dad?”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“Some.”
Chloe leaned against a bookshelf.
The library smelled like paper, dust, and the cinnamon gum the librarian chewed despite school rules.
“Did Savannah get in trouble?”
“She obtained legal advice before turning over the device. I’m not going to speculate about consequences.”
“She only did it because she was scared for herself.”
“That may be part of it.”
“You always say things like that.”
“People usually do things for more than one reason.”
Chloe watched Kenzie at a distant table drawing a skull in the margin of a math worksheet.
May you like
“Does the phone mean you don’t need me?”
“We still need to understand what happened from the people who experienced it.”
