Chương 8
"How much money?"
Martinez did not answer immediately.
"Carter."
"How much?"
"The face amount on the document is two hundred and forty thousand dollars."
I sat down because my knees had begun to feel unreliable.
"I never applied for a loan like that."
"I believe you heard me when I said we're comparing evidence."
"I didn't apply for it."
"I understand what you're saying."
"No, you understand words."
My voice sharpened despite myself.
"I need you to understand that if my name is on that application, somebody put it there."
"That's one possibility."
"What is the other?"
"That there are facts we don't have yet."
I nearly threw the phone.
Instead, I pressed my thumb hard against the table edge until it hurt.
"Whose bank?"
"We're not discussing that tonight."
"You called me."
"Because the threat you received changes the safety picture."
"And the loan doesn't?"
"It changes the investigative picture."
I looked toward the bedroom again.
"What do I do if Jason shows up?"
"Do not confront him."
"If he comes through my door?"
"Call 911 and protect yourself and your daughter."
"That's vague."
"It's deliberately simple."
I almost argued, then stopped.
"Fine."
"If anything moves outside, don't go looking."
"Fine."
"Keep the phone charged."
"Fine."
"And Carter?"
"What?"
"Do not tell Emily about the blood."
"I wasn't going to."
"You've asked her enough for one night."
That stung because he was right.
I ended the call and sat in the dark kitchen for several minutes.
The loan amount kept repeating in my head.
Two hundred and forty thousand dollars.
It was almost exactly what I owed on my house.
That coincidence felt too specific to ignore and too dangerous to interpret.
I opened the mortgage app on my phone anyway.
Balance: two hundred thirty-eight thousand, four hundred and eleven dollars.
I stared at the number.
Then I closed the app.
I did not know whether that meant anything.
At one thirty-seven, the hallway floor creaked.
Emily appeared wearing my T-shirt and dragging the blanket behind her.
"You said you'd be in your room."
"I was."
"You're in the kitchen."
"I know."
She gave me a tired look.
"That's not the same place."
"You're right."
She climbed onto the chair opposite me.
"Can I have water?"
I got her a glass.
She drank half of it, then held the cup with both hands.
"Did the police call?"
"Yes."
"Did they find Mom?"
"No."
She nodded without looking up.
I waited.
She traced a circle in the condensation on the glass.
"Jason made me sign something."
Every muscle in my body went still.
"What?"
She looked at me.
"You're doing the face."
"What face?"
"The one where you're trying not to ask too many questions."
I let out a breath through my nose.
"Okay."
She thought for a moment.
"It was paper."
"Do you remember what it said?"
"No."
"Did he tell you?"
"He said it was to prove I broke his tablet."
"Did you break his tablet?"
"No."
"Then why sign?"
Her eyes hardened.
"Because he wouldn't let me go back inside."
The answer came without tears.
That made it worse.
"When was this?"
"Before Mom gave me the granola bar."
I forced myself to stay seated.
"Did Mom know?"
"I think."
"What makes you think that?"
"She saw the pen."
I stopped there.
I wanted every detail.
I also wanted not to become another adult making her perform the worst three days of her life on demand.
"Okay."
Emily frowned.
"You said okay again."
"Bad habit."
"Really bad."
"What list?"
"The list of things you say I'm bad at."
That made her smile faintly.
Then it disappeared.
"Was the paper important?"
"I don't know."
"You think it was."
"Maybe."
She groaned.
"That word again."
I leaned back.
"Then yes, it might be important."
"Because Jason lies."
"Because people sometimes use signatures for things they shouldn't."
She stared into the water.
"Like Mom's?"
My chest tightened.
"What do you mean?"
She looked toward the hallway.
"Mom said he copied hers."
I kept my voice low.
"When did she say that?"
"Not to me."
"You heard her?"
Emily nodded.
"She told someone on the phone that the signatures didn't match."
I felt a pulse of anger, then fear, then something colder.
"Did she say whose signatures?"
"No."
"Did Jason hear?"
"I don't know."
"Okay."
She pointed at me.
I corrected myself.
"I hear you."
That satisfied her.
She finished the water and stood.
"Come back to the room."
I followed.
On the mattress, she turned away from me but left one hand outside the blanket.
I sat on the floor beside her.
After a minute, she touched my wrist.
"Mom said if something happened, I should tell you about the orange folder."
I stared at the back of her head.
"What orange folder?"
She did not answer.
Her breathing had already changed.
I waited another minute.
Nothing.
I did not wake her.
The orange folder sat in my mind like a flare.
At seven twelve the next morning, Chris knocked on the front door carrying coffee, a grocery bag, and the expression of a man arriving at a fire with a garden hose.
I checked the window before opening.
He noticed.
"That bad?"
"Come in."
He set the groceries on the counter.
"I brought eggs, cereal, bananas, and whatever these are."
He held up a box of frozen waffles.
"You've seen waffles before."
"Not ones with cartoon unicorns."
"They're probably Emily's."
"They were on sale."
"That is not how you shop for children."
Chris looked around.
"How would you know?"
I almost answered.
Then I didn't.
He saw something in my face and lowered the box.
"Sorry."
"It's fine."
"No, it wasn't."
We stood there awkwardly.
That was how men in our family apologized.
Half a sentence and a change in posture.
Emily came down the hallway.
Chris turned toward her.
"Hey, Em."
She stopped.
"Uncle Chris."
He did not move closer.
May you like
"Your dad says I make terrible eggs."
"He does too."
