Chapter 2

"I wasn't there."

Daniel taps the paper.

"I know."

"Then why is this written as if I saw it?"

"It explains what happened."

I read the first paragraph.

It says my mother stepped into the road without looking.

It says Brooke was driving carefully.

It says I do not believe Brooke was responsible.

"You've already decided what I'm going to say."

"I'm trying to keep this from getting worse."

"For who?"

His mouth tightens.

"Her father saved my life."

I remember this part.

The river.

The summer Daniel was twelve.

The promise he made years later at the man's hospital bed.

Take care of my little girl.

Daniel has used those words to excuse missed birthdays, canceled plans, and money disappearing from our account.

Today, he wants them to excuse a death.

"You know what I owe that family," he says.

"My mother isn't your debt to pay."

He flinches.

For a moment, I think the words have reached him.

Then he picks up a pen.

"No one is asking you to pay anything."

I look at the paper.

"My name is on it."

"You're my wife."

"And she's your wife's mother."

He puts the pen down too hard.

"It was an accident."

"Was Brooke drinking?"

His face changes.

That's all the answer I need.

"She had a rough night," he says.

"Was she drinking?"

"She didn't mean to hurt anyone."

I step away from the table.

He catches my arm.

"Don't start."

I pull free and reach into my pocket.

He sees the phone.

"Who are you calling?"

I press the emergency number.

Daniel knocks it from my hand before I can hear anyone answer.

It strikes the floor near the refrigerator.

I bend for it.

He shoves me aside.

My hip hits the cabinet.

The pain is immediate.

Real.

This isn't a dream.

He picks up the phone, checks the screen, and switches it off.

"You don't know what you're doing."

"I'm calling for help."

"You're trying to destroy her."

I look up at him.

"Someone is dead."

He runs a hand through his hair.

For the first time since he came in, the careful grieving-husband expression slips.

Underneath, he's irritated.

Tired.

Angry that I won't make this easier.

"Listen to me. I've already taken care of things."

"What things?"

"The car. The footage."

I keep my eyes on his face.

"What happened to the person she hit?"

He glances toward the window.

"Not here."

"What does that mean?"

"It means there's nothing you can do by making a scene."

Upstairs, something shifts.

Daniel looks toward the ceiling.

My heart slams against my ribs.

"How do you know it was my mother?"

He blinks.

"What?"

"How did you identify her?"

"Rachel, don't do this to yourself."

"Did you see her face?"

He doesn't answer.

I take a step closer.

"Daniel."

"It was bad."

His voice drops.

"The impact. I couldn't—"

He stops.

Then he reaches for the explanation that made him so certain.

"She had the bracelet."

I go still.

"What bracelet?"

"The silver one. With the little leaves."

My fingers curl against the edge of the counter.

"I bought that last year."

"I know."

"You saw it?"

"Yes."

He sounds relieved now.

As though we have finally agreed on something.

"That's how I knew."

Last Mother's Day, I ordered two silver bracelets from the same jeweler.

The same pattern.

The same clasp.

One for my mother.

One for his.

Margaret cried when she opened hers.

She said no one had bought her jewelry in years.

Daniel was on his phone.

I had to say his name twice before he looked up.

Now he pushes the pen toward me.

"Please, Rachel. Sign."

I look at the paper.

Then at him.

"Have you called your mother today?"