Part 5
“She has copies of your phone reports.”
“What phone reports?”
“The wireless account. Numbers, call times, data use.”
Claire almost dismissed it. Parents paid the bill. Account holders could see those things.
Then she remembered Denise asking why she had called Mrs. Alvarez twice in one week.
Claire had said the counselor called her.
Denise answered, “That is not what the account shows.”
At the time, Claire assumed she was bluffing.
“Why does she have copies?”
“She prints them.”
“Where?”
“Home office.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know something.”
Owen looked exhausted.
“She said Dad needed documentation.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Stop saying that.”
“I don’t.”
He leaned against the hallway wall.
“She was talking to someone on the phone about whether you should spend next school year somewhere with more structure.”
The air seemed to leave Claire’s room.
“Boarding school?”
“I don’t know.”
“Military school?”
“No. Nothing like that.”
“What did she say?”
“That you were becoming secretive and oppositional. That Dad could not keep traveling if things stayed like this.”
“Who was she talking to?”
“I only heard part.”
“Owen.”
“Maybe Aunt Linda.”
Denise’s sister lived in North Carolina and worked as an administrator at a residential arts academy.
Claire had visited the school’s website once after Denise left a brochure on the kitchen counter. The academy offered dance, visual arts, theater, and creative writing. Its dormitories looked like renovated hotels. Tuition cost more than many colleges.
Denise had called it a remarkable opportunity.
Claire had said she did not want to leave home.
The brochure disappeared.
“Did Dad know?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know.”
She glared.
Owen lifted both hands.
“I honestly don’t.”
Claire’s phone buzzed.
A message from Mark appeared beneath the recording she had sent.
I watched it. I am sorry. We are going to deal with this when I get home.
A second message followed.
I did not approve removing your lock.
A third:
I did not ask Owen to track you.
Claire showed the screen to Owen.
His shoulders dropped.
Not relief. The collapse of an excuse.
“I’ll tell him everything,” he said.
“You should.”
He nodded and turned away.
“Owen.”
He stopped.
“Did Denise tell you I agreed to go to Aunt Linda’s school?”
He looked back.
“No. She said you would be happier after you adjusted.”
Claire gripped the phone.
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No,” he said. “She never said you agreed.”
The answer stayed with Claire after she closed the door.
At twelve forty-seven, headlights swept across the bedroom ceiling.
Claire was awake.
She had not intended to wait for her father, but every sound downstairs pulled her attention from the novel open on her lap. The garage door rose. A car entered. The mechanism groaned shut.
A minute later, voices began in the kitchen.
Mark’s was low and indistinct.
Denise’s was clearer.
“You told her to barricade herself against me.”
“I told her to put a chair under a door that should still have a lock.”
“You made me sound dangerous.”
“I asked whether she was safe.”
“She told you I brought boys into her room. They never entered.”
“Because Owen refused.”
“You heard one frightened version before boarding a plane and issued orders as though I were an intruder.”
“You removed the lock.”
“I replaced a broken handle.”
“It was not broken.”
“You were never here when it jammed.”
Claire climbed out of bed.
Her bare feet made no sound on the wooden floor. She removed the chair, opened the door a few inches, and listened.
Mark said, “Why did you tell both children I approved things I did not approve?”
“I told them what we discussed.”
“We discussed location sharing after Claire missed curfew.”
“She did not miss curfew,” Owen said.
Claire had not known he was downstairs.
Denise responded, “She arrived at six twelve.”
“Her bus was late.”
“She did not communicate.”
“She texted you.”
“She texted after six.”
Mark said, “Stop.”
The house became quiet.
“I am not doing this at one in the morning,” he continued. “Nobody is making good decisions. Owen, go to bed.”
“I need to tell you about the school.”
Claire opened the door wider.
Mark asked, “What school?”
Denise spoke quickly.
“That was a preliminary conversation.”
“What school?”
“The Ashford Academy,” Owen said.
A chair scraped.
Mark’s voice became very calm.
“Why were you discussing Ashford?”
“Because Linda works there and said Claire might qualify for the writing program.”
“That does not explain collecting phone records.”
Claire’s heart beat harder.
Mark had read Owen’s message.
Denise said, “I was trying to understand a pattern.”
“What pattern?”
“Claire has become withdrawn, secretive, hostile, and increasingly difficult to supervise.”
“Supervise,” Owen repeated.
“Go to bed.”
“I’m part of this.”
“You are a child.”
“I’m seventeen.”
“Then show better judgment and stop inserting yourself.”
“He was already inserted,” Claire said.
The three of them looked toward the stairs.
She descended slowly, one hand sliding along the railing. Her pale blue pajama trousers brushed her ankles. Mark stood beside the kitchen island in a charcoal travel jacket, his hair flattened on one side from the plane. A suitcase rested near the mudroom door.
He looked older than he had on the phone.
Denise stood across from him with both palms pressed against the counter. Owen sat at the table, shoulders hunched.
Mark looked at Claire.
“You should be asleep.”
“So should all of you.”
“Fair.”
His attempt at a smile failed.
Claire stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“Did you know about Ashford?”
“No.”
Denise straightened.
“We were not sending you anywhere. I asked Linda for information.”
“Why?”
“Because you love writing.”
“I love my school.”
“You complain about it constantly.”
“I complain about chemistry.”
“You said you felt invisible there.”
“Once.”
“You said the house did not feel like home.”
Claire saw the hurt beneath Denise’s anger.
May you like
She had said that sentence during an argument two months earlier.
Denise had entered Claire’s room without knocking and found her listening to Emily’s voicemails. She asked why Claire was crying. Claire said she wanted her mother. Denise replied that everyone in the house knew she missed her mother, but grief could not become permission to shut people out forever.
