Chapter 10
Mom’s phone buzzed beneath the copies of the loan papers.
She looked down. Whatever she read made the color leave her face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
She set the phone facedown, but her hand stayed on it. Dad was beside her, close enough to touch, not touching. The space heater clicked. Somewhere in Walter’s workshop, a pipe knocked once in the cold.
My own phone lit up with Vanessa’s name.
I answered on speaker.
“You talked to Mom?” Vanessa asked.
“I did.”
“Then you know I need five minutes alone with her.”
“No.”
The word came out harder than I intended. Mom’s eyes lifted to mine.
“You don’t get to arrange private conversations after everything you’ve done,” I said. “If you have something to say, say it here, with all of us.”
A pause. I could hear traffic moving behind her, tires hissing over wet pavement.
“Michael, this isn’t about you.”
“Then stop trying to get around me and talk to Mom.”
“I’m trying to fix this.”
“You had months to fix it.”
Dad’s hand closed around the back of Mom’s chair. She looked at the phone, then at the papers beneath her palm.
Vanessa exhaled sharply.
“Fine. Keep telling yourself you’re helping.”
She hung up.
I lowered my phone. Mom’s had gone silent under her hand.
“Did she say something to you?” I asked.
Mom shook her head too quickly. “No.”
Walter glanced toward the workshop’s rear door. “I’ll check the truck. Make sure it’s ready if we need it in the morning.”
“I’m coming,” I said. “I want to see if I can get a signal.”
I stepped into the narrow side yard with my phone. Cold air sharpened the smell of sawdust clinging to my sweater. I tried Vanessa’s number again, but it went straight to voicemail.
When I came back in, Dad was standing beside the empty chair.
“Where’s Mom?”
Walter came in behind me, wiping his hands on a rag. His gaze moved from the chair to the rear door.
“I thought she’d gone to the restroom.”
Her coat was gone from the hook.
Dad’s face tightened. “She wouldn’t go out without telling us.”
I grabbed my jacket. “She got a message.”
“From who?” Walter asked.
“I don’t know. She said it was nothing.”
Dad was already moving toward the door. His steps were uneven, but he didn’t slow when I reached for his arm.
“Let me,” I said.
“I can walk.”
“I know. I’m still walking with you.”
For half a second, he looked as though he might argue. Then he nodded, and we went together.
The family house sat a few streets away. Porch lights glowed through the bare branches, yellow squares against the dark. I kept calling Mom, listening to the unanswered ring thud against my ear.
Walter’s truck stopped short of the driveway.
Mom’s coat lay near the front steps, one sleeve caught under the porch rail. I knew the dark wool and the loose button at the collar. Dad had sewn it back on twice.
Walter came around the truck and lifted the sleeve. “It’s damp.”
Dad stared past him, toward the street.
Fresh tire tracks cut through the thin crust of snow beside the curb. They turned away from the house and headed toward town.
I crouched to look at them. “Someone picked her up.”
“Or she got into a car,” Walter said.
The distinction landed between us like a dare.
Dad leaned on the truck’s open door. His breath came in short white bursts. “Which way?”
Walter pointed toward Main Street. “That’s the only set of tracks.”
Dad shook his head. “Not Main.”
He looked down the darker road that ran past the closed feed store, away from the diner and the courthouse square.
“There’s a turn before the old mill,” he said. “The road bends behind the machine shop.”
“What’s there?” I asked.
“An unused workshop. The owner moved years ago. Vanessa stored some of our things there once, when she was cleaning out the upstairs rooms.” Dad’s mouth tightened. “She knows it’s empty.”
I looked toward the road. “You think she brought Mom there?”
“I think that’s where I’d go if I wanted to keep someone out of sight.”
The words came with a quiet certainty that scared me more than a guess would have.
Walter opened the truck door. “Get in.”
Dad climbed into the back seat without help. I slid in beside him, leaving his coat folded between us. He stared straight ahead as Walter pulled away.
I put a hand on the seat near Dad’s—not quite on his shoulder. He had once stood behind Mom’s chair and let her speak for herself. Now his fingers curled against his knee, working at the cloth.
“She went because she thought you needed her,” I said.
His eyes stayed on the road. “She’s always come when I call.”
“You didn’t call.”
“No.” He swallowed. “That’s what makes it worse.”
I had no answer that wouldn’t insult him with comfort. So I sat beside him, listening to the engine strain up the hill.
The old workshop sat beyond the mill road, set back from the shoulder behind a leaning fence. One high window glowed faintly. The rest of the building was dark, its wide doors shut against the night.
Walter killed the headlights before we reached the fence.
“What if she’s hurt?” I whispered.
Dad unbuckled his seat belt. “Then we don’t make it worse by barging in.”
His voice trembled, but he was already reaching for the door.
“Dad, wait.”
He turned on me. In the dim cab, the anger in his face was braided with fear.
“I’ve waited enough.”
He got out. Walter went around to his side, ready to steady him if he needed it. Dad shrugged off the offer without a word, then walked toward the building with me at his shoulder.
At the door, I pressed my ear to the cold metal.
At first I heard only the wind needling through the gaps in the boards. Then came a low murmur—Vanessa’s voice, tense and clipped.
Mom answered, too faint to make out.
My chest seized around one breath.
Vanessa spoke again, louder.
“Just sign it. It’s the only way to keep everything from falling apart.”
A chair scraped across the floor inside.
May you like
Dad lunged toward the door.
“Vanessa, get away from her!”
