Chapter 3 - Blood and Alibis
The Benton household on Sycamore Lane was dark when I finally blew past the neighborhood entrance at 1:15 a.m.
I hadn't intended to stop at the house first. Every maternal instinct screamed at me to drive straight to Jill’s suburban townhouse three miles north. But as I passed the turnoff for Sycamore, I saw the lights.
Not the warm, yellow glow of a home where a family slept, but the erratic, pulsing strobes of a television screen against drawn blinds in the living room. Derek’s truck was parked haphazardly on the front lawn, one tire crushing the edge of the hostas I had planted last spring. The driver’s side door was cracked open an inch, the interior dome light bleeding into the dark driveway.
I pulled my car behind his truck, blocking him in completely.
If he was planning on running, he wasn't doing it in that vehicle.
The cold night air hit my lungs like shattered glass as I stepped out. The silence of the cul-de-sac was eerie. Suburbia at one in the morning was supposed to be dead, peaceful, a sanctuary for families who spent their weeks worrying about mortgage rates and soccer schedules. Instead, our two-story colonial looked like a crime scene waiting for tape.
I walked up the front steps, my keys clenched between my fingers like claws.
The front door wasn't locked. It wasn't even fully latched.
When I pushed it open, the stench hit me first. Stale cigarette smoke, cheap domestic beer, and something else—a heavy, cloying floral scent that didn't belong to me, didn't belong to Lucy, and certainly didn't belong to any cleaning product we kept under the sink.
The living room was trashed.
Empty aluminum cans were scattered across the coffee table. A half-eaten pizza box sat open on the sofa, grease soaking into the grey fabric cushions. On the kitchen counter, three shot glasses sat next to a spilled pool of dark liquor that had dripped down the white cabinetry and pooled onto the hardwood floor.
On the couch, sprawled out on his back with one arm thrown over his eyes, was Colin.
My brother-in-law was twenty-eight, unemployed, and had spent the last five years treating our home like an all-inclusive resort whenever he had a falling out with his latest girlfriend. He was snoring heavily, mouth open, his t-shirt stained with beer.
“Colin!” I shouted.
The sound of my voice cut through the room like a gunshot.
Colin jolted awake, flailing his legs, knocking two empty cans off the table. He blinked against the dim light, squinting at me with bloodshot, yellowing eyes.
“Mara?” he slurred, rubbing his stubbled chin. “What... what time is it? You’re back early.”
“Where is he, Colin?”
“Who? Derek?” Colin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked around the empty room, confused. “He was... he went to get ice. Or smokes. I don’t know.”
“When?”
“I don’t know, man. An hour ago? Maybe two?” Colin squinted at me, his brow furrowing as if trying to piece together a puzzle with missing edges. “Wait. Weren't you in Columbus? Derek said you were staying through Sunday.”
I stepped closer to him. My voice dropped to a register so low and quiet it made Colin lean back involuntarily.
“Where were the kids tonight, Colin?”
Colin blinked. “Upstairs. Playing video games or whatever.”
“Did you see them?”
“Derek said they were upstairs.”
“Did you look with your own eyes, Colin?”
He hesitated. The dim, drunken fog in his brain started to clear, replaced by the sudden, ugly realization that he was standing on the edge of a cliff. “I... no. I got here around eight. Derek had pizza. He said the kids were already in bed because Eli had a stomach ache.”
“Derek left them at the Northside Diner at six forty,” I said. Every word felt like a shard of ice being forced into my throat. “He left a fifteen-year-old and an eight-year-old in a public booth with twenty-six dollars and never came back.”
Colin’s jaw dropped. For a second, genuine shock flickered across his face. “No. No way. Derek wouldn't do that. He loves those kids.”
“Then why was he lying to you? And why was he lying to me on the phone while he was pouring you drinks?”
Before Colin could answer, footsteps sounded on the back deck.
Heavy, hurried footsteps. The metallic scrape of the patio slider door followed, and then Derek stepped into the kitchen.
He was wearing his Carhartt jacket, the collar pulled up against the cold. His hair was damp with sweat, his face pale and mottled with red patches along his neck. In his hand, he held a plastic bag from a convenience store.
He froze when he saw me.
For three seconds, neither of us moved. The hum of the refrigerator filled the room.
Then, the mask went on.
It was a mask I had seen Derek wear a hundred times—at parent-teacher conferences, during arguments about our finances, when he was pulled over for speeding. It was the smile of an innocent man falsely accused, calibrated to project calm, reasonable patience against a woman’s unreasonable fury.
May you like
“Mara,” he said smoothly, setting the plastic bag on the counter. “You made good time. I told you on the phone, there’s no reason to blow this out of proportion.”
***
