Chương 9
She muttered while turning pages.
“June eighteenth.”
I waited.
“Dentist at eleven.”
“That was you.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“HOA pest-control inspection at two.”
My hand tightened around the pen.
“You were home at two?”
“I had to be.”
“Did they come?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Could you see my driveway from your house?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I know every person who parks badly on our street.”
“Jean.”
“I'm thinking.”
I heard pages rustling.
“Lauren's SUV was there when the pest-control truck arrived.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“She was still there when they left?”
“I think so.”
“Was anyone with her?”
“No.”
“How sure?”
“Pat, I watched her move her car because the pest-control man couldn't get around it.”
My pulse quickened.
“So at about two she was alone.”
“Yes.”
“And I was home.”
“Unless you developed teleportation.”
“Jean.”
“Sorry.”
“Did you see anyone come to my house while Lauren was there?”
“No.”
“Could someone have come without you noticing?”
“Of course.”
The answer disappointed me because it was honest.
“I wasn't staring out the window all afternoon.”
“I know.”
“But there was something odd.”
“What?”
“She carried a printer.”
I stopped writing.
“A printer?”
“Small one.”
“Into my house?”
“Yes.”
“You never told me.”
“I thought it was yours.”
“It isn't.”
“Maybe it was a scanner.”
“Why would she bring that?”
“You're asking the woman who still writes checks at Publix.”
I stood and began pacing again.
“Jean, what color was it?”
“Black.”
“Laptop?”
“I don't remember one.”
“Bag?”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Big tote.”
“Did she leave with the printer?”
“I think so.”
“You think?”
“I am not testifying under oath in my robe, Patricia.”
“I'm sorry.”
“No, you're scared.”
I stopped.
Jean rarely used direct emotional words.
She preferred complaining about gutters.
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
“And Pat?”
“Yes?”
“Don't protect Marcus if he did something stupid.”
I closed my eyes.
“He is my son.”
“I know.”
“That's exactly why it's hard.”
“I know that too.”
After we hung up, I wrote everything she had said while it was fresh.
At ten thirty, Deputy Reed called.
“We're at the residence.”
My throat tightened.
“With Marcus?”
“Yes.”
“And Lauren?”
“No.”
“Did you find my passport?”
“Not yet.”
“Is the desk damaged?”
“There are signs the locked drawer was opened, but we're not making conclusions about how.”
“Can I come there?”
A pause.
“Yes, but I want you to understand something first.”
“What?”
“This is not going to be a dramatic removal where somebody points at a paper and everyone walks away.”
I almost smiled at the precision.
“You've met families before.”
“A few.”
“What happens?”
“We document your ownership claim, the disputed deed, the occupancy agreement, and the property situation.”
“And I revoke permission.”
“You can state that.”
“Then they leave.”
“Maybe voluntarily.”
“And if not?”
“Then your attorney may need to pursue the appropriate civil process depending on their residency status and the facts.”
I gripped the phone.
“The agreement says I can terminate permission.”
“That can be important without meaning I personally throw their belongings into the yard.”
The image from my anger the night before dissolved.
No designer suitcases lined neatly on a porch.
No instant justice.
Just forms, uncertainty, signatures, procedures.
Real life was much less satisfying than revenge stories.
“Is Marcus cooperating?”
“Mostly.”
“What does mostly mean?”
“He is answering some questions.”
“And the others?”
“He says he doesn't know.”
“That sounds familiar.”
Reed's voice softened slightly.
“Mrs. Wells, you may hear things today that upset you.”
“I already have.”
“I believe you.”
“Can I come?”
“Yes.”
“Drive safely.”
“I hate when people say that right before giving me bad news.”
“Then drive unsafely very carefully.”
I laughed despite myself.
By the time I reached the beach road, the sky had turned bright and hard blue.
Tourists crossed between rental houses carrying umbrellas, coolers, inflatable animals, and children coated in sunscreen.
Nobody knew my house had become a crime scene in my head.
Two sheriff's vehicles were parked near the driveway.
Marcus sat on the porch steps.
He looked smaller than he had the night before.
Not physically.
Something had come out of him.
Confidence, perhaps.
Or denial.
He stood when I parked.
I stayed in the car for a few seconds.
Through the windshield I could see the front door.
My front door.
The blue shutters.
The porch swing Harold had hung crooked because he refused to measure twice.
It looked exactly like home.
That felt insulting.
Marcus came toward me.
I opened the door.
“Mom.”
I stepped out.
His eyes were red.
“Where's Lauren?”
“I don't know.”
“Still?”
“She won't answer.”
“Did you call her after I told you not to?”
His face tightened.
“Yes.”
I stared at him.
“Of course you did.”
“She is my wife.”
“And did you warn her about the passport?”
“I asked if she had it.”
“That is warning her.”
“I needed to know.”
“You needed to feel better.”
He flinched.
The cruelty was deliberate.
I regretted it immediately and did not apologize.
That was my ugly little moment.
He looked toward the road.
“She said she doesn't have it.”
“And you believed her?”
“I don't know what I believe.”
“That must be convenient.”
“Stop.”
His voice cracked.
“Please stop treating me like I'm Lauren.”
“I don't know what part of this is yours yet.”
His face went pale.
That was answer enough to make me afraid again.
“What part is yours?”
He looked toward the deputies.
“Not here.”
“Mom.”
“What did you do?”
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“I signed the deed.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“You said you signed papers.”
“I did.”
“You said you didn't know.”
“I didn't know at first.”
“At first.”
He lowered his hands.
“When Lauren showed me the final version, I saw what it was.”
“And?”
“She said it was temporary.”
“Stop saying that word.”
“She said we needed our names on the property long enough to qualify for financing.”
May you like
“Against my house.”
“She said the loan would pay off her debts, we would fix the condo, and then transfer the property back.”
