Chapter 9 - THE PERSON ACROSS THE STREET
Police came to my house before I did.
They checked the yard.
The garage.
The back door.
Nothing was missing.
No forced entry.
But one neighbor had seen a dark SUV parked across the street around seven that morning.
The driver never got out.
I asked the obvious question.
“Was it Grant?”
The neighbor shook his head.
“Couldn’t see the driver.”
Brooke already had an answer.
“His mom drives a black SUV.”
Caroline warned us not to jump to conclusions.
So I didn’t.
But I started looking at Diane differently.
We gave police the photo and the message.
That evening, Diane called me.
I almost didn’t answer.
Then I remembered Caroline saying documentation mattered.
So I recorded the time and put the phone on speaker with Brooke beside me.
“Linda,” Diane said.
Her voice was warm.
I hated how warm it was.
“What do you want?”
“To stop this madness.”
“Your son assaulted my daughter.”
“My son lost his temper.”
“He grabbed her by the hair in front of thirty people.”
“And Brooke humiliated him.”
I stared at the phone.
“There is something wrong with you.”
“No. There is something wrong with women who think marriage means they can do whatever they want.”
Brooke closed her eyes.
I said, “Why are you calling?”
“Because Grant loves her.”
“That isn’t love.”
“You’re divorced, Linda. Maybe you’re not the best person to explain marriage.”
I almost laughed.
There she was.
The knife hidden inside the smile.
Then Diane said, “Tell Brooke to come home.”
“No.”
“He’ll forgive her.”
Brooke’s eyes opened.
I looked at her.
She shook her head.
“No.”
Diane’s voice hardened.
“You’re making things worse.”
“No, Diane. I think your son made things worse when he put his hands on my child.”
“Your child is thirty-one years old.”
“She’ll be my child when she’s eighty.”
Silence.
Then Diane lowered her voice.
“You don’t know everything.”
“Then tell me.”
“Grant has information.”
“What kind?”
“Information that could embarrass Brooke.”
Brooke went rigid.
I said, “Is that supposed to scare me?”
“It should scare her.”
“What information?”
Diane laughed softly.
“You really think she told you everything?”
I looked at Brooke.
She stared back.
Something moved across her face.
Dread.
Diane continued.
“Ask your daughter about the money.”
Then she hung up.
I didn’t speak for several seconds.
Finally, I turned to Brooke.
“What money?”
Her face crumpled.
“Mom…”
“What money, Brooke?”
She stood and walked toward the window.
“Grant opened accounts.”
“In your name?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“I don’t know.”
I felt my stomach turn.
“He told me they were for taxes. Then later he said I had signed papers.”
“Did you?”
“I signed things he put in front of me.”
“Without reading them?”
Her eyes flashed.
“You think I don’t know how stupid that sounds?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were going to.”
“No.”
She looked away.
“I was scared of him, Mom. Sometimes signing was easier than saying no.”
My anger shifted again.
Not toward her.
Toward the thousands of tiny decisions he had forced her to make.
“What accounts?”
“Credit cards. Maybe a loan.”
“Maybe?”
“I don’t know.”
Rachel, who had been sitting quietly, opened her laptop.
“We can check her credit.”
Twenty minutes later, Brooke was staring at the screen.
Three accounts she recognized.
Four she didn’t.
And one personal loan for $42,000.
My daughter whispered, “I never took out that loan.”
Rachel scrolled down.
Then froze.
“What?”
“The mailing address.”
She turned the laptop.
May you like
The address on the loan wasn’t Brooke and Grant’s house.
It belonged to Diane.
