Dana and Sarah arranged a meal calendar for the next few weeks. It almost makes up for what they said about me behind my back. In that way, I suppose guilt has its perks.
While I was in the hospital with Blair, an officer met with Greg about the missing bolts from the swing set. He took his statement and several photos. I don’t hold out much hope that anything will come of it, but at least it has been documented.
Word has spread among our circles about Jack Mooney and the harassment. Our neighbors have been told what to look for. Talk is cheap, though, and rumors spread. I’ve heard gossip that is true, although much of it isn’t. While I appreciate the goodwill, this is not the kind of attention I’d wish upon our family. It feels like we're a twenty-car pileup in the middle of an otherwise empty roadway, and neighbors crane their collective neck to catch a glimpse as they move forward.
Once we are settled at home, Greg comes into the makeshift bedroom where Blair is sleeping and I am perched on the floor with my laptop on my knees. He tells me we need to talk.
“You always hate it when I say that.”
He looks away and out the window, and with a heavy sigh, tells me he didn’t come to fight. His expression and the slump of his shoulders allow me to drop my guard too.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d contacted him?”
“I don’t know. I was handling it.”
“And you knew I’d be mad.”
My bottom lip juts out. “And I knew you’d be mad.”
“We can’t keep secrets from each other. It’s not healthy.”
“You lied to me about the money. You lie to me about your work; I know things are worse off than you let on and still you lie.”
He opens his mouth to speak and then thinks better of it.
“But Alex? Really?”
Somehow I don’t think this is a good time to offer up the information about Benny and what he plans to do. “You’re right. It was probably a mistake.”
“The guy’s a creep. Remember what he put you through?”
“He was your friend.”
“Keyword. Was. And my God, how easily you forget.”
“I’m sorry. I should have told you.”
“No,” he says. “You shouldn’t have done it in the first place.”
“You’re probably right. But we need help.”
A grin slides across his face. “What’s the difference between a good lawyer and a bad lawyer?”
I roll my eyes. My husband solves issues in one of two ways. Sex and humor. “I don’t know. What?”
“A bad lawyer might let a case drag on for several years. A good lawyer knows how to make it last even longer.”
The second night we are home, I put Blair to bed downstairs and turn on the old baby monitor Greg dug out of the garage, bringing it to the bathroom with me while I shower. Greg sends me a text from upstairs. I need you. And we need to talk.
I respond with a thumbs-up emoji. And then I type out, I’ll be up in a minute.
His response is immediate. Are you in the mood to play?
Am I in the mood to play? Such a loaded question. I am actually exhausted in every way. Although I know what he is asking, and I know that we need to talk. For weeks now we have been like two parallel roads that never cross. It’s impossible to sustain a marriage like that over the long haul, and who really knows where the line is drawn. This is not my first rodeo. I understand that with what I have to lay on him, so to speak, I’m better off just giving him what he wants.
Chapter Thirty
He was frozen. Straight-up paralyzed. An ever-present sense of panic gnawed at him. When he placed the cameras, this is not what he was expecting to see. He only wanted to know the children were all right. Yes, he’d wanted proof that they needed more supervision and confirmation that their parents needed to do better, but what he has now is bigger than that. It’s a situation, and now he cannot turn away.
She entered the room like an angel, dressed in a thin robe with a towel framing her head like a halo. The husband had been seated on the bed, his hands folded in his lap, his gaze fixed on the floor as though he were thinking, or waiting, or both. He looked up when she appeared and stood immediately, his shoulders squared off.
He moved