Chapter 2
His hand was still on my window frame and I could see the sweat at his knuckles where he gripped the metal.
I didn't look at him. I looked at the keys. They hung from the ignition with that little blue plastic tag swinging, just an inch from my fingertips. The air in the SUV smelled like hot vinyl and gasoline and the faint sour of my own breath. My boy sat belted beside me with his bruised arm pulled tight against his chest, and I could feel him watching me without turning my head.
I reached.
I fit my fingers around the keys and twisted.
The engine tried to catch and didn't. Just a choked crank, then nothing. My hand shook so hard the tag rattled against the column. I tried again.
He moved before it could turn over the second time.
His arm shot through the window and his palm slammed down over mine, pinning my hand and the keys against the steering column. The wedding band on his finger was cold against my skin. Lincoln emblem under my other hand. My right forearm throbbed where the bruise was, pressed against the wheel.
"Give me those keys," he said. His voice was low now, not shouting, which was worse. His face was inches from the glass.
I didn't let go. I couldn't tell if I was holding the keys or he was holding me. My boy made a small sound beside me, a breath that caught.
"Don't," I whispered. Not to him. To my son. Or to myself.
He pushed harder. "Diane. Give me those keys. You're not thinking straight."
My hand stayed where it was, under his. The keys bit into my palm. I could feel his eyes on my chin where the cut still stung, and on my arm, and then flicking to my son's face. He was breathing through his mouth, trying to keep his voice even for anyone who might be listening at the other pumps.
"He's my responsibility," he said again, like repeating it would make it true. "You need to step out and let me handle this."
I looked down at my son's knees. The bruises there were dark purple-green, fresh over older yellow. His left cheek, his eye. Both arms. I had not asked yet how. I had told myself Elias would explain.
Elias had not explained.
The pressure of his hand on mine was steady, insistent. Give them over, get out, let him drive, let him talk to Elias man to man. That's what he'd done before. Smooth it over. That was the pattern.
I turned my head just enough to meet his eyes through the window.
"You said he was safe, then explain those," I said. My voice came out quiet and it cracked on the last word.
He blinked. His jaw tightened.
"That's not—" he started. "You don't know what you're looking at. Kid falls on a playground, kid—"
"Then explain those," I said again. I didn't raise my voice. I didn't have to. My fingers curled tighter around the keys and did not let go. I pulled back half an inch, just enough to break his hold, and covered the ignition with my other hand.
For a second his expression slipped. Not anger. Something else, flat and calculating, like he was deciding which version would work.
He let go.
He didn't step away. He pulled his arm back out through the window and placed both hands on the door frame, leaning in so his body blocked any way for me to open the door. The keys stayed where they were, in the ignition, engine still off. My hand stayed over them, knuckles white.
Behind him, by the pump island, the station attendant had come out. He was a guy in his fifties in a faded gas station polo, and he wasn't pumping gas anymore. He was standing three feet behind the man at my window, holding a rag, staring at my boy through the passenger glass.
He looked at the bruises on my son's face. He looked at my face. He looked at the man leaning into my car.
"No one needs to make a scene here," my husband said without looking back, loud enough for the attendant to hear.
The attendant didn't answer him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket. His thumb moved across the screen.
I saw his mouth form the words clearly, though I couldn't hear them over the blood in my ears. Sheriff. Need someone.
The attendant held the phone to his ear and stepped back toward the store, eyes never leaving us.
The man at my window noticed. I watched his shoulders rise. He took one step back from the door, just enough to show his hands were empty, but he stayed planted square in the way, one foot forward, blocking the driver door from opening. His smile, when he tried it for the attendant, didn't reach his eyes.
May you like
"Everything's fine," he called over his shoulder. "Family matter."
Nobody moved. The engine was still off. The keys were still in the ignition under my hand. And in the rearview I could see the attendant through the back window, talking low into his phone and watching us.
