Chương 9
“I don’t know yet.”
Jenna nodded slowly.
“Okay.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, what?”
She pulled the door open.
“I just assumed you were.”
Then she stepped outside.
I watched her cross toward her car.
Halfway there, she turned back.
“Lil.”
I opened the door.
“What?”
“If Evan calls you, don’t tell him anything.”
“Why would Evan call me?”
“He won’t.”
“That cleared everything up.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
She hesitated.
Then she said, “He knows about the money problems.”
“That seems reasonable.”
“He doesn’t know how bad they are.”
Before I could answer, she hurried through the rain.
The next afternoon, Evan called me.
I stared at his name on the screen until it nearly stopped ringing.
Then I answered.
“Hi, Evan.”
“Hey.”
His voice sounded exactly as I remembered it, which seemed unfair considering everything else had apparently changed.
There was a brief rustle on his end, followed by the hollow slam of a car door.
“Bad time?”
“I can talk.”
“Jenna told me not to call you.”
I closed my eyes.
“Then this is going well already.”
He gave a short laugh.
“Yeah.”
I was standing in the upstairs hallway with a paint sample taped to the wall.
The color was called Whispering Pine and looked almost identical to the wall already there.
I had spent twenty minutes deciding whether I hated it.
“What do you need?” I asked.
Another pause.
“I’m not sure.”
“That seems to be going around.”
“She told you?”
“Some things.”
“How many things?”
“Enough to know I’m not supposed to tell you anything.”
“That also sounds like Jenna.”
I sat on the top stair.
Below me, sunlight fell across the foyer in long pale rectangles.
Evan exhaled.
“I’m going over there tonight.”
“To get your stuff.”
“She told you that too?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
He sounded disappointed, though I couldn’t tell whether he wanted me to know more or less.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“I wanted to make sure she wasn’t alone.”
I frowned.
“She’s been alone for two months.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
He was quiet long enough that I stood again.
“Evan?”
“She called me last night.”
I waited.
“She was upset.”
“That narrows it down.”
“Lillian.”
His tone sharpened just enough to stop me.
“She said some things that worried me.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know if she meant them the way they sounded.”
My hand tightened around the phone.
“What did she say?”
“That maybe everybody would be better off if she stopped trying to hold everything together.”
The hallway seemed to change temperature.
I sat back down.
“Did she say she was going to hurt herself?”
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She got angry.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
I pressed two fingers to my forehead.
“Where is she now?”
“At work, I think.”
“You think?”
“She answered a text this morning.”
“What did she say?”
“That she had meetings.”
I stood so quickly my shoulder hit the banister.
“Why are you calling me instead of her?”
“Because she stopped responding.”
“How long?”
“About forty minutes.”
I started toward the bedroom where I had left my shoes.
“Forty minutes is not—”
“I know.”
He interrupted me.
“I know people have meetings.”
“Then why are you scared?”
His answer came quietly.
“Because I know what she sounds like when she’s bluffing.”
That stopped me.
“And last night?”
“She wasn’t.”
I shoved my feet into loafers without socks.
“Did you call her office?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“She’d kill me.”
“Good.”
“What?”
“If she’s angry enough to kill you, problem solved.”
He didn’t laugh.
Neither did I.
“I’m calling her,” I said.
“She might answer you.”
“Why?”
“Because right now she hates me more.”
“Comforting.”
I ended the call and immediately dialed Jenna.
It rang four times.
Voicemail.
I tried again.
Nothing.
My chest tightened.
I told myself forty minutes was nothing.
People put phones on silent.
People met with clients.
People used bathrooms.
People drove through parking garages with bad reception.
Then I remembered her swollen eyes in the coffee shop.
The contractor estimate.
The empty cup twisting between her hands.
What if I can’t keep it?
I called Mom.
She answered on the second ring.
“What happened?”
“Do you know where Jenna is?”
“She’s working.”
“Have you talked to her today?”
“This morning.”
“How did she sound?”
Mom went quiet.
“Why?”
“Just answer me.”
“Tired.”
“What did she say?”
“Lillian, what is going on?”
“Evan called me.”
That was enough.
Her breathing changed.
“What did he say?”
I hated the fear that entered her voice.
“He said she was upset last night.”
Mom inhaled sharply.
“Did she say something?”
“Nothing specific.”
That was not entirely true.
It was also the only useful version of the truth.
“I’m going to her office.”
“I’ll come.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because if she’s fine, she’ll be furious enough with one person.”
“I’m her mother.”
“And you’re the reason she thinks everyone knows everything.”
Silence.
I regretted the sentence, but not enough to take it back.
“I’ll call you,” I said.
“Please do.”
Jenna worked for a medical-device distributor in King of Prussia.
It took thirty-one minutes to get there because traffic stalled near an interchange where two lanes had been narrowed by construction.
I spent most of the drive telling myself I was overreacting.
Then I spent the rest imagining every possible reason I might not be.
At a red light, Mara called.
I declined it.
She called again.
I declined that too.
A message appeared.
You alive?
I sent back, Family thing.
She replied with a single thumbs-up.
It was exactly what I needed.
No questions.
No advice.
Just acknowledgement.
Jenna’s office occupied the third floor of a glass building surrounded by identical glass buildings.
I parked illegally near the entrance and walked inside.
A receptionist with silver glasses looked up.
“Can I help you?”
“I’m here to see Jenna Holloway.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
May you like
“No.”
The receptionist gave me the expression reserved for people who believed relationships exempted them from calendars.
