into tears. He tries to calm me, to reassure me, but if there’s anything my husband is allergic to, it’s sweeping displays of emotion. His reaction makes it abundantly clear. He doesn’t know what to do anymore than he knows how to handle my outpouring of emotion. He cannot carry my fear and his too.
“It’s okay,” he tells me. He turns on the radio, only to turn it off again. I give him a moment to collect his thoughts.
Instead of telling him that he is wrong, that nothing is okay, that nothing may ever be okay again, or that Jack Mooney is capable of anything, I let him have his silence. Even though I desperately want to hear him agree, while there is still time, while our destiny has not yet been fixed. And what else can Jack Mooney do? Other than what he has planned to do, convinced that whatever action he takes is justified? To me, it feels like the wheels have been set in motion. I don’t see him reversing course. Odds are, he’ll step on the gas. I shift in my seat, craning my neck to peer out the back window. “Do you think he’s following us?”
“No.”
“Have you checked the rearview mirror? Maybe we should make a couple of false turns just to be sure.”
“Amy—” He places his hand on mine. “It doesn’t matter.” He speaks slowly and calmly, as though he’s talking to an animal that might spook. “He knows where we live.”
My mouth gapes open. I know this. Of course, I know it. It’s my husband’s resignation I am not prepared for. “So what are we going to do?”
“I don’t know,” he says with a sigh. “Something else. Something different.”
“Something different,” I repeat solemnly.
I stare out the window, unable to stop myself from glancing at the occupants of the passing cars when I can. I wonder about the problems the occupants face: The timing of Thanksgiving dinner, the places they need to be. The overbearing in-laws, the alcoholic sister they hope behaves, the uncle who insists on bringing up politics at the dinner table, the nephew who’s allergic to everything. Whatever it is, I highly doubt it’s anything of this magnitude.
The closer we get to home, the more I wonder if I’m ever going to hit gold status, or if I’m going to spend countless hours chasing my tail, showing up for buyers that don’t exist while fellow agents push ahead.
“Feeling sorry for yourself isn’t going to help,” Greg says, reading my mind, or more likely my body language.
“How am I supposed to feel?” I shift in my seat until I’m facing him. “What a brilliant idea. Yes. Please. Tell me what I should be feeling.”
“Whoa.” He holds his hands off the wheel, palms toward the dash. “Hold on a sec…before you attack… look, I know you’re upset.” He glances over at me. “But let’s not forget—we’re in this together.”
“I’m not upset. I’m pissed. Just a few days ago—” I toss my hands up, gesturing wildly. “A few days ago, we were like everyone else. Happy-go-lucky. Now—”
“We’ve never been like everyone else.”
My husband’s blind optimism almost makes me smile. It definitely causes me to pause. “This is supposed to be a happy time,” I sigh. “Our first Thanksgiving at home in forever. It feels like that is being stolen from us.”
“Only if you let it.” He frowns as though he doesn’t understand how I could possibly have any other opinion. “That man doesn’t hold all the cards, Amy. No matter what it may look like.”
His comment takes me back. I picture Jack Mooney in the defendant’s chair. I remember how he had looked from that jury box, like a cornered animal. Vicious, glowering, savage. And powerful. The way he’d scan the courtroom, challenging anyone who dared meet his eye. The way he looked at people was unnerving, as though it would be his greatest privilege to snuff them out, to annihilate them.
But when he looked my way, which was often, there was something different in his demeanor. Pity, maybe. Whatever it was, it was evident he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His gaze made me feel naked, stripped bare. I felt completely and utterly exposed, as though he could see right through me. “He’s not in his right mind.”
Greg’s fingers grip the steering wheel. They flex and grip, grip and flex. “It worries me,” I say. “It’s almost like he’s detached from reality, and yet at the same time, he knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“Maybe