Chapter 4: Eighteen Months of Lies
"It was an accident." She said it fast.
Too fast.
"Whatever you're thinking, stop."
"I'm not thinking anything yet." I set the camera down on the hallway shelf, face up, still recording.
"I'm listening."
Marcus finally looked at me.
"Diane called her.
They argued on the phone.
That's all.
Whatever happened after that—"
"She was driving when they argued," I said.
Silence.
"She called you while she was driving." I looked at my wife.
"And you knew that.
And you kept her on the phone."
"I didn't make her drive anywhere."
"How long was the call?"
She said nothing.
"I can pull the phone records." My voice was calm.
I didn't know how it was calm.
"How long was the call?"
Marcus put his hand on her arm.
"Don't answer that."
I looked at my brother.
The person who stood next to me at Diane's funeral.
Who held Lily when she cried at the graveside.
Who told me, *she loved you so much, man, she really did* — and put his hand on my shoulder while he was sleeping with my wife.
"Get out of my house," I said.
"Ryan—"
"Get out.
Both of you.
Right now."
"You need to calm down." My wife stepped forward.
"You're scaring Lily."
I turned around.
Lily was still standing behind me, pressed against the wall.
I went to her immediately, crouched down, took both her hands.
"Hey.
Look at me." She did.
"I need you to go find Mrs.
Patterson, okay?
She's in the backyard.
Stay with her.
Can you do that?"
She nodded.
She glanced once at my wife — a quick, practiced glance, the kind that checks for danger — and then she went.
That glance.
That small, automatic glance.
I stood back up.
"She checks to see if you're going to stop her," I said.
"Did you know that?
A six-year-old checks your face before she moves.
Because she's learned she needs permission to walk away from you."
My wife's expression didn't change.
"You're being dramatic.
Like her."
"I want you to pack a bag tonight."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"This is my home too."
"My lawyer will disagree with you on that." I picked the camera up from the shelf.
"This recording is going with me.
The phone records from the day Diane d*ed are going with me.
And you are going to leave this house tonight, or I am going to call the police and let them sort out exactly what kind of conversation you were having with my wife while she was driving on the highway."
For the first time, something cracked in her face.
Marcus stepped between us.
"You don't have enough to—"
"I have her voice on a recording talking about keeping something buried." I looked past him at her.
"I have a daughter who has been locked in a closet ten times.
And I have eighteen months of a secret that you both just confessed to in my hallway." I held up the camera.
"I have enough."
My wife looked at the camera.
Then at Marcus.
Then back at me.
"You don't know the whole story," she said.
"Then you should have told me the whole story before you locked my daughter in a closet on her birthday."
She picked up her purse from the hallway table.
Her movements were careful, controlled.
She paused at the front door.
"You're going to regret this," she said.
Not angry.
Almost quiet.
"I already do," I said.
"I regret three years of it."
She left.
Marcus stood in the hallway for a moment longer.
He opened his mouth.
"Don't," I said.
He closed it.
And he walked out.
I stood alone in the hallway with the camera in my hand and the sound of children laughing in the backyard and I looked down at the small blinking red light.
May you like
It was still recording.
I hadn't checked how far back the footage went.
