Chapter 5
Ethan almost smiled.
Noah had inherited Lauren’s negotiating style.
At nine that night, Ethan found himself alone in the hospital cafeteria with a paper cup of coffee he had forgotten to drink.
His brother Ben sat across from him.
“You look dead,” Ben said.
Ethan stared at him.
Ben winced.
“Bad word choice.”
Despite everything, Ethan laughed.
It lasted only a second.
Then he pressed his palms into his eyes.
“I ignored her calls.”
Ben had apparently been briefed by the universe to avoid reassurance too.
“Yeah,” he said.
Ethan looked at him.
“That’s all you have?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
“You ignored her calls because you were pissed off at your wife. That’s a marriage problem. It is not a kidnapping plan.”
Ethan looked toward the vending machines.
A teenager in medical scrubs shook a bag of chips that had gotten stuck.
Ben followed his gaze.
“Also, for the record, those machines have robbed me twice today.”
Ethan shook his head.
“Lauren was going to leave me.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She said she couldn’t keep doing this.”
“She has said that about your dishwasher.”
“Not the same tone.”
“No.”
Ben leaned back.
“Did you want to leave her?”
“No.”
“Then maybe stop deciding what she was going to do before she gets a chance to tell you.”
Ethan looked down at the untouched coffee.
Ben had always been the less polished brother. He changed careers three times, divorced once, and owned shirts with fishing companies printed across the chest. Lauren liked him because, she once said, Ben had no talent for pretending to be wiser than he was.
Ethan suddenly missed the version of his life in which that had been an ordinary observation.
The next morning Lauren asked for toast and ate half a piece.
It felt like progress.
She gave detectives a longer statement.
Afterward, she asked Ethan to stay.
Noah was with Ben in the family waiting area assembling a model airplane somebody from child services had found in a cabinet.
Lauren looked at the bandage over her IV.
“Claire was stealing from Mom.”
Ethan sat beside the bed.
Lauren and Claire’s mother had died eighteen months earlier after several years of worsening Parkinson’s disease. Claire had handled most of her day-to-day care. Lauren managed bills when she could, but Ethan knew there had been tension about money.
“How much?”
“I don’t know yet. At least two hundred thousand.”
Ethan stared at her.
“From the estate?”
“Before she died too. Home-equity draws. Transfers. Mom’s care account. I found paperwork Monday.”
“Why were you looking?”
Lauren rubbed her thumb against the edge of the blanket.
“Because Claire asked me to sign something.”
“What?”
“A statement saying Mom had agreed to reimburse Claire for expenses. Fifty-eight thousand dollars.”
“Did she?”
“Some expenses, probably. Not fifty-eight thousand.”
Lauren looked toward the door.
“I asked for the bank records. Claire told me I was treating her like a criminal after she gave up years of her life taking care of Mom.”
“What did you say?”
“That taking care of Mom didn’t make theft okay.”
Ethan could hear her saying it.
Precise.
Unhelpfully precise.
“Claire went quiet,” Lauren continued. “You know how she does.”
He did.
“She left. Then around nine she came back and said she wanted to show me something at Mom’s old storage unit. Said there were boxes I needed to see before I accused her of anything.”
“You went with her?”
Lauren gave him a tired look.
“Yes, Ethan. I did something stupid.”
“I didn’t say—”
“You made the face.”
“What face?”
“The face where you silently prepare a risk assessment.”
He almost apologized.
Then stopped.
“You’re right.”
That surprised her.
She looked down.
“I didn’t think she’d hurt me.”
“Why would you?”
“Because she was my sister.”
The word was difficult for her.
Lauren continued more slowly.
“On the way north, she started crying. She said she borrowed money because Mom’s care was more expensive than anybody understood. Some of that was true. She said she could put it back if I gave her time.”
“Could she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you agree?”
“No.”
Ethan looked away.
Lauren noticed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Don’t do that.”
He exhaled.
“I was thinking you can be...”
“Say it.”
“Unforgiving.”
She almost smiled.
“That sounded like it physically hurt you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’m not saying she deserved time. I’m trying to understand what happened.”
Lauren considered that.
“I told her I would not go to the police that night. I said we would get records, figure out exactly what she had taken, and talk to an attorney in the morning.”
“That sounds like time.”
“It wasn’t the time she wanted.”
“What did she want?”
“For me to sign the statement and stop looking.”
Lauren’s gaze drifted to the window.
“She pulled off the road. Said she couldn’t drive while we were fighting. We sat there. Then she gave me water.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
“She had two bottles. Mine was already open.”
“You drank it?”
“I was thirsty.”
“Lauren.”
“I know.”
“No. Sorry.”
She looked at him again.
“I started feeling wrong after a few minutes. Heavy. My hands didn’t work right. I remember trying to open my door.”
Her breathing changed.
Ethan kept his hands in his lap.
“I remember Claire saying, ‘Please stop making this worse.’”
Lauren closed her eyes.
“Then I woke up downstairs at home.”
“Our basement?”
“In the storage room behind the furnace.”
Ethan pictured it.
A heavy solid-core door, installed by the previous owner when the room had been used for recording music. Ethan stored old paint, holiday decorations, and two boxes of college textbooks he had refused to throw away.
“There’s no lock on that room.”
“There is now.”
He said nothing.
“She had screwed a hasp into the frame.”
“How did I never—”
“You weren’t home.”
The sentence was factual.
May you like
It still cut.
“She had my phone. She brought it down once.”
