Chapter 1 - THREE FLASHES
Richard punched my son before the mud on Mark’s grave had settled.
Noah was fifteen.
He had spent the entire funeral with his jaw clenched so tightly I could see the muscle jumping beneath his skin.
He had not cried at the church.
He had not cried at the cemetery.
He had held his twelve-year-old sister Sophie beneath one arm while freezing rain soaked through both of their black coats.
Then we came home.
Or tried to.
Richard stood on our front porch holding a new brass key.
Behind him was the red-brick house Mark and I had lived in for fourteen years.
Our porch.
Our curtains.
Sophie’s bicycle visible through the garage window.
Noah’s basketball hoop beside the driveway.
Our life, apparently, with a new lock.
Richard looked at me as though I were late returning something I had borrowed.
“Get out.”
I stopped beneath the rain.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Evelyn stood behind him in a black funeral dress, one hand wrapped around her pearl necklace.
She would not meet my eyes.
I looked at the key.
“Why do you have that?”
Richard inserted it into the lock.
Turned it.
Opened the front door.
Closed it again.
Demonstration.
“This house belongs to the Bennett family.”
“I am the Bennett family.”
“Not by blood.”
Sophie made a tiny sound.
I pulled her against me.
“Richard, Mark has been dead for six hours.”
His mouth tightened.
“Which is why we are not going to prolong this.”
Noah stepped forward.
“Grandpa, stop.”
Richard looked at him.
“Stay out of adult business.”
“This is our house.”
“No.”
Noah’s voice sharpened.
“Dad bought it.”
“I funded the down payment.”
“Dad paid you back.”
Richard’s face changed.
I noticed.
“Who told you that?”
“Dad.”
Richard moved one step down from the porch.
“Noah.”
“Don’t.”
I put my arm out.
Noah moved around me.
I saw the moment grief found somewhere to become anger.
“You waited until his funeral.”
“Noah.”
“You’re disgusting.”
Richard punched him.
One hard blow across the mouth.
Noah stumbled backward on the wet driveway.
Sophie screamed.
Everything became motion.
I rushed forward.
Richard raised his hand again.
I kicked him.
Not wildly.
My heel struck his hip and lower abdomen as he stepped toward Noah.
He fell backward through the open doorway and hit the hardwood floor.
“Touch my children again and you will face the consequences.”
My voice did not sound like mine.
Evelyn shouted:
“Laura!”
I was already turning.
Noah held one hand against his bleeding lip.
“Car.”
“Mom—”
“Now.”
Sophie grabbed Noah’s sleeve.
We walked toward the old Chevrolet parked at the edge of the driveway.
Mark’s car.
Calling it a car was generous.
A rusted 1998 Chevrolet Caprice Mark bought from his uncle when he was seventeen and kept through college, marriage, two houses, children, cancer, and years of me asking:
“Why is that thing still here?”
Because it still starts.
Usually.
Because Dad gave it to me.
Because someday Noah might want it.
Mostly sentimental nonsense.
Now the passenger door stuck when I pulled.
I jerked it twice.
It opened.
Sophie climbed into the back.
Noah stood in the rain.
“Your mouth.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“I said I’m fine.”
Grief again.
Later.
I opened the driver door.
Then remembered.
Three weeks before Mark died, he had asked me something strange.
“If anything happens, don’t let Dad touch the Chevy.”
At the time I thought morphine and exhaustion were making him sentimental.
“Richard hates that car.”
“Good.”
“Why?”
“Just don’t.”
I looked under the passenger seat.
A waterproof black pouch.
I had seen Mark put tools there before.
My fingers closed around it.
Richard was back on the porch.
One hand against the doorframe.
The other over his mouth.
“Laura!”
I opened the pouch.
Sealed envelope.
My name.
Mark’s handwriting.
My husband had always written my L too large.
LAURA.
My hands began shaking.
Evelyn saw the envelope.
Her entire face changed.
Richard whispered:
“No.”
I tore it open.
One page first.
Laura—
If Dad uses my funeral to change the locks, do not sign anything.
Do not surrender the Chevrolet.
Do not give him any paper he claims I signed.
Get into the car.
Turn the headlights on and off three times.
Then wait for Frank.
I looked across the street.
Frank Delaney.
Seventy-two.
Retired civil engineer.
Quiet.
Widower.
Mark sometimes shoveled his walkway.
Frank sometimes helped Noah fix bicycles.
That was the entirety of our relationship.
I looked toward Richard.
He stared at the envelope.
“You opened it.”
Evelyn spun toward him.
“You told me the bag was gone!”
The rain seemed to stop inside my head.
“What bag?”
Neither answered.
I climbed into the Chevrolet.
The key was still under the floor mat where Mark irresponsibly kept it for years.
I turned the ignition.
The engine coughed.
Started.
Then I pulled the headlight switch.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Three flashes.
Nothing happened for perhaps four seconds.
Then Frank Delaney’s garage door began to rise.
Richard stepped off the porch.
“Laura, don’t.”
Frank emerged carrying a dark metal case with both hands.
No umbrella.
No coat.
Only a gray sweater becoming soaked.
He crossed the street.
Richard shouted:
“Frank, stay out of this!”
Frank ignored him.
He stopped beside my car.
Then looked at me.
His eyes were red.
“I’m sorry about Mark.”
“Frank, what is that?”
“Something your husband left with me eleven months ago.”
Richard came down the driveway.
Frank stepped between him and the car.
“Don’t.”
Richard froze.
Frank’s voice remained quiet.
“Mark gave me written instructions. If you attempted to remove Laura or the children from the property after his death, I was to deliver this case and contact Dana Mercer.”
“Who?”
Frank looked at me.
“Mark’s estate attorney.”
I stared.
“We have an estate attorney?”
Richard’s face went pale.
Frank reached into his pocket and removed his phone.
Then he said:
“I’ve already called her.”
Behind Richard, Evelyn whispered:
“Oh God.”
May you like
And I realized the envelope in my hands was not something Mark had written because he feared death.
He had written it because he feared his parents.
