Chapter 1 - The searched drawers
My name is Marcus Hale.
I was thirty-nine years old when I came home early and discovered that my twelve-year-old son had learned to fear the sound of my wife’s footsteps upstairs.
My address was 418 Corvine Ridge Road in Ashenport.
Three stories.
Slate roof.
Wide windows.
Too much square footage for three people.
I bought the house with Eli’s mother, Lauren, when Eli was six.
Lauren died four years later.
A ruptured cerebral aneurysm.
No warning.
No long illness.
She complained of the worst headache of her life one Tuesday morning and was dead before midnight.
Eli was ten.
I spent the next year functioning like a man reading instructions underwater.
Wake him.
Feed him.
School.
Work.
Dinner.
Grief counselor.
Sleep badly.
Repeat.
My job did not help.
I was regional sales director for a commercial HVAC manufacturer.
Large contracts.
Hospitals.
Universities.
Hotels.
Data centers.
My territory stretched across four states.
Before Lauren died, I traveled perhaps six nights a month.
Afterward I tried to reduce it.
Then promotion.
More responsibility.
More money.
More promises that:
“This quarter is temporary.”
Temporary became normal.
Simone entered our lives eighteen months after Lauren died.
She was thirty-three then.
Polished.
Calm.
Smart.
She worked as director of client services at a boutique architectural firm.
She understood schedules.
Travel.
Deadlines.
She never tried to replace Lauren.
At least that was what I thought.
She told Eli:
“You only get one mom. I’m not here to steal that title.”
I almost loved her for that sentence before I loved her for anything else.
We married fourteen months later.
By then Eli was eleven.
He did not call her Mom.
Simone said it was fine.
I believed her.
The day everything changed, I was supposed to spend two nights in Denver.
A client postponed the second meeting because their CFO had COVID.
I caught an earlier flight.
Landed at 1:14 p.m.
Got home just after two.
No text.
I thought I might surprise Eli.
School had ended for summer three weeks earlier.
He was supposed to be home with Simone.
The front door opened quietly.
I carried my travel bag inside.
Almost called:
“Anybody home?”
Then I heard something upstairs.
Drawer slides.
Open.
Close.
Another.
Fast.
I placed my bag on the floor.
Walked toward the stairs.
Another drawer.
Then Simone’s voice.
Low.
“Where is it?”
I stopped.
Eli did not answer.
I climbed.
The hallway carpet muffled my steps.
His bedroom door stood open.
Simone faced away from me.
She was pulling clothing out of Eli’s dresser.
Not folding.
Not sorting.
Searching.
His desk drawers were open.
Nightstand too.
Closet floor disturbed.
Eli stood beside the bed.
Brown hair.
Jeans.
Sneakers.
An oversized navy long-sleeve shirt.
It was eighty-eight degrees outside.
He looked rigid.
Not annoyed.
Not embarrassed.
Afraid.
“Simone… what are you doing?”
She spun around.
For half a second, her face showed naked panic.
Then it softened.
Just as quickly.
“Marcus.”
“What are you doing?”
She pushed a drawer closed.
“Just cleaning.”
I looked around.
Nothing about the room looked cleaner.
Eli said nothing.
His right hand moved.
He pulled his left sleeve farther down.
Small motion.
Almost automatic.
I saw it.
“Eli.”
He looked at me.
“What happened to your arm?”
“Nothing.”
“Can I see?”
His body tightened.
I stepped closer slowly.
“I’m not going to grab you.”
I reached toward his wrist.
Before I touched him, he flinched hard enough to strike the bed frame with his knee.
I froze.
“Hey.”
His breathing changed.
“I’m not touching you.”
His sleeve had shifted.
High on his upper arm, partly hidden beneath the fabric, were several fading bruises.
Not one.
Finger-shaped? I could not know that yet.
Purple fading toward yellow.
Different sizes.
My stomach dropped.
I looked at Simone.
Her face was no longer soft.
She took one nervous step backward.
“How long has this been happening?”
Eli lowered his eyes.
No answer.
Then I looked around again.
His drawers.
Desk.
Closet.
This was not cleaning.
It was a search.
I slowly turned toward Simone.
Behind me, Eli whispered:
May you like
“She’s different when you leave.”
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