Chương 3
“Yes.”
His answer came without defense, and that made it harder to dismiss.
Grant’s shape passed across the kitchen window. Even from the car, Elise recognized the way he rubbed the back of his neck when cornered.
Robert said, “Don’t come back tonight.”
“Grant told me to.”
“I’m telling you not to.”
“You don’t get to tell me either.”
“No.” He sounded tired. “I suppose I don’t.”
A car turned onto the street. Its headlights swept over Elise’s windshield and moved on.
“Where will you go?” Robert asked.
“I haven’t decided.”
“Do you have money?”
The question was so practical that Elise nearly cried again.
“I have my card.”
“Your own card?”
She closed her eyes.
Grant managed their accounts. He called it efficiency. Her freelance design income went into a joint checking account because he said separate finances created separate lives. She had a credit card in her name, but he paid the balance and received the account alerts.
“Yes,” she said. “I have a card.”
Robert did not challenge the answer. “Call someone. Don’t stay alone if you can avoid it.”
“Why did Eleanor leave me the house?”
“I don’t know that she did.”
“You just told me not to go back.”
“I know she was worried.”
“About what?”
Robert said nothing.
Grant’s voice sounded in the background, closer now. “Who are you talking to?”
Robert lowered his voice. “Go somewhere safe. Open the letter there. Call the attorney before you sign anything.”
“Sign what?”
But Robert had already ended the call.
Elise remained in the driveway for another minute. Then Grant appeared at the front door.
He did not come outside. He stood beneath the porch light, one hand braced against the frame, waiting for her to choose whether his stillness was permission or threat.
She started the car.
The first place that came to mind was a hotel near the interstate where she and Grant had spent one night after their wedding reception because a storm canceled their flight. The memory made the hotel impossible.
The second place was her friend Marisol’s house. Elise pictured the narrow guest room upstairs, the dinosaur night-light in the hallway, Marisol’s husband waking at five for work. She pictured telling the story aloud and watching it become real in another person’s face.
She drove there anyway.
Halfway across town, Grant called. She let it ring until voicemail picked up. He called again. On the third attempt, she silenced the phone.
At a red light she noticed a faint indentation across her palm from the frying-pan handle. She ran her thumb over it, then opened and closed her fingers. Nothing hurt. She had no bruise to photograph, no injury to explain. There was only the movement he would insist had meant nothing and the fear her body had understood before her mind.
Marisol opened the door wearing flannel pajama pants and one gold hoop earring. She looked first at Elise’s face, then at her belly, then toward the empty driveway.
“What happened?”
Elise tried to answer. Instead she said, “I’m sorry it’s late.”
“It’s nine twelve.”
“I didn’t know where else to go.”
Marisol stepped aside immediately. “Then you came to the right place.”
The house smelled of laundry detergent and toasted cumin. A cartoon murmured from the living room, though both children were asleep. Marisol’s husband, Ben, appeared on the stairs in a T-shirt, assessed the situation without questions, and said he would make up the guest bed.
Elise sat at the kitchen table. It was covered with spelling worksheets, two unopened bills, and a bowl of peaches beginning to wrinkle. Nothing matched. The ordinary mess steadied her.
Marisol put a glass of water in front of her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
The second answer sounded wrong.
Marisol waited.
“He moved like he was going to hit me,” Elise said. “He stopped before he touched me.”
“Did you think he was going to hit you?”
“Yes.”
“Then stop answering no.”
Elise lowered her eyes.
Marisol pulled out the chair beside her. “Where is he now?”
“At the house.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“No.”
“Can he track your phone?”
Elise stared at her.
Marisol reached across the table. “Elise.”
“He might. We share locations.”
“Turn it off.”
“He’ll know I turned it off.”
“That is the point.”
Elise unlocked the phone. Grant had left four voicemails and eleven messages. The newest read: Dad has lost perspective. Mom is hysterical. You need to fix this.
Her thumb hovered over the location settings.
She thought of all the times Grant had checked whether she had left the grocery store, the gym, the doctor’s office. At first it had seemed affectionate. He would text, You’re still there? Need anything? Later, when she took longer than expected, he asked who she had been talking to.
She stopped sharing her location.
The absence of the little arrow beside his name felt louder than the confrontation.
Almost immediately, he called.
Marisol reached for the phone. “You don’t have to answer.”
“I know.”
Elise answered.
Grant began speaking before she said hello. “Where are you?”
“I’m safe.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
“Elise, this has gotten completely out of hand.”
She looked at Marisol. Her friend’s face remained still, but one hand flattened over the table.
Grant continued. “You pulled a pan on me.”
“I held it against myself because you would not step back.”
“You are rewriting what happened.”
“Your father saw it.”
“My father is upset because my grandmother died and left a mess behind. He is not thinking clearly.”
“Your grandmother died eight months ago.”
“That doesn’t mean he’s processed it.”
Elise heard the familiar mechanism settling into place. Grant collected explanations the way some people collected receipts. He saved them until an expense appeared, then produced the one that made him least responsible.
“What does the letter say?” he asked.
“I haven’t opened it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Why?”
May you like
“Because you drove away over it.”
“I drove away because you frightened me.”
