Chapter 2
I stared at the little black device in Marcus’s palm.
It looked harmless.
Small.
Plastic.
Almost cheap.
But the way Marcus held it made my skin turn cold.
“That was on Ryan’s truck?” I whispered.
“No,” he said. “Under your car.”
My breath stopped.
My mother tightened her grip on my hand.
“My car?”
Marcus nodded.
“It was stuck near the rear tire. Fresh mud around it. Someone put it there recently.”
The Christmas lights around Diane’s porch blinked red and gold behind us.
Inside, people were still shouting.
Diane’s voice rose above all the others.
“She ruined Christmas!”
Ryan appeared at the front door.
His jaw was already swelling.
His eyes locked on the tracker in Marcus’s hand.
And there it was.
Fear.
Not confusion.
Fear.
My stomach twisted.
“You knew,” I said.
Ryan stepped onto the porch.
“Claire, come back inside.”
“No.”
“Don’t make a scene in the street.”
I laughed.
It came out sharp and broken.
“You slapped me in front of twenty people, but I’m making a scene?”
Diane appeared behind him, wrapped in a towel, soup still in her hair.
“You stole from my house!” she screamed, pointing at Marcus. “That is private property!”
Marcus lifted the tracker.
“This was on my sister’s car.”
Diane’s face froze.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
So did my mother.
Ryan came down the steps.
“Give that to me.”
Marcus closed his fist around it.
“Not happening.”
Ryan looked at me.
“Claire, you don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
He rubbed one hand over his face.
His wedding ring flashed under the porch light.
“I was worried about you.”
“Why?”
“You’ve been acting different.”
“Different means what? Tired of your mother treating us like dirt?”
Diane snapped, “Your family is dirt.”
My mother flinched.
I turned toward Diane so fast Ryan stepped back.
“Say that again.”
Diane’s mouth closed.
For once, she looked less certain.
Marcus leaned close to me.
“We need to leave.”
But my feet would not move.
The tracker felt like the edge of a cliff.
“How long?” I asked Ryan.
He swallowed.
“It’s not what you think.”
“How long?”
Diane answered before he could.
“Since September.”
The world tilted.
September.
Three months.
All those times Ryan asked where I had been.
All those times he mentioned places I had never told him about.
The pharmacy.
The bank.
My mother’s apartment.
My doctor’s office.
I thought he was guessing.
He had been watching.
My mother’s voice shook.
“Ryan, why would you track my daughter?”
Diane laughed.
“Because your daughter has been sneaking around.”
I stared at her.
“Sneaking around?”
“You think we don’t know about the lawyer?”
The cold moved from my skin into my bones.
I had met a lawyer twice.
Quietly.
Because I was thinking about divorce.
Because Ryan controlled our joint account.
Because Diane had started showing up at my office, smiling at my coworkers and calling herself “the real woman behind Claire’s marriage.”
I had told no one except Marcus.
Ryan saw my face change.
His eyes cut to Marcus.
“You told her to leave me.”
Marcus stepped forward.
“She came to me because she was scared.”
“Scared?” Ryan scoffed. “Of what? My mother having standards?”
I touched my burning cheek.
“Of this.”
For a moment, he looked ashamed.
Then Diane put her hand on his shoulder.
The shame disappeared.
“You hit me back,” he said.
My mouth opened.
My mother stepped in front of me.
“You hit her first.”
Ryan looked past her like she was furniture.
“This is between me and my wife.”
My mother’s voice went low.
“No. The moment your hand touched my daughter, it became between you and every person who loves her.”
Diane rolled her eyes.
“Oh, spare us the poor mother speech.”
My mother turned to her.
“Diane, you fed me bones.”
“You should be used to them.”
Marcus moved.
I grabbed his arm.
“No,” I whispered. “She wants that.”
Diane smiled.
There it was.
She wanted us angry.
Wild.
Easy to blame.
Ryan reached into his pocket.
“If you won’t come inside, I’m calling the police.”
“Good,” Marcus said. “Tell them about the tracker.”
Ryan hesitated.
Diane snapped, “Call them.”
He didn’t.
That told me everything.
A car pulled into the driveway.
For one second, everyone froze.
The driver’s door opened.
My father-in-law, Thomas, stepped out.
I had not known he was coming.
Diane’s face drained.
Thomas Henderson had lived in a guesthouse behind the property for the last year, separated from Diane but not divorced.
Ryan told me he was unstable.
Diane told me he drank.
But Thomas looked perfectly steady as he walked toward us in a wool coat, carrying a brown folder under one arm.
His eyes moved over my wet hair, my red cheek, my mother’s trembling hands, Ryan’s swollen jaw, and the tracker in Marcus’s fist.
Then he looked at Diane.
“What did you do?”
Diane recovered quickly.
“Your son was attacked.”
Thomas ignored her.
He faced me.
“Claire, did Ryan hit you?”
Ryan said, “Dad—”
Thomas raised one hand.
“Did he?”
I swallowed.
“Yes.”
Thomas closed his eyes.
Pain crossed his face.
Then he opened them and looked at his son.
“I warned you what becoming your mother’s weapon would cost.”
Diane hissed, “Don’t start.”
Thomas held up the folder.
“No, Diane. Tonight we finish it.”
Ryan went pale.
Diane stepped backward.
My heart began pounding again.
“What is in that folder?” I asked.
Thomas looked at me with deep, tired sorrow.
“The reason Diane never wanted your mother respected at that table.”
He opened the folder.
Inside was a copy of a deed.
May you like
My mother’s name was on it.
So was Diane’s.
