Chapter 3 - THE WHISPERING WALLS
The next morning,
the house felt like a trap.
Gary was gone before I woke up,
his truck a disappearing rumble in the driveway.
Mom was in the kitchen,
drinking coffee and staring out the window at the gray Ohio sky.
She looked older than she had the night before.
The skin around her eyes was tight,
the lines of her mouth etched deep with something like regret.
I didn't say good morning.
I went straight to the coffee pot.
“Gary says you should stay after school for volleyball,”
she said,
not looking at me.
“I don't play volleyball,
Mom,”
I replied,
my voice cold.
“He thinks you need a hobby.
Something to keep you busy.”
“He wants me out of the house,
you mean.”
She finally looked at me,
and for a second,
I saw the woman she used to be.
The woman who used to bake cookies and sing to Ethan.
“He’s just trying to find a rhythm for us,
Brooke.”
“A rhythm that involves beating a child?”
She winced,
but she didn't look away.
“Ethan is difficult.
You know that.”
“He isn't difficult.
He’s different.”
“And he’s your son.”
I leaned across the counter,
my eyes searching hers.
“What is the settlement,
Mom?”
The coffee cup in her hand trembled.
Just a little.
But it was enough.
“I don't know what you’re talking about,”
she said,
her voice rising.
“I heard you and Gary talking last night.”
“You’re hiding something about Dad’s accident.”
“And Gary is here to make sure Ethan doesn't remember.”
Mom stood up,
her face turning a sickly shade of white.
“Get out,
Brooke,”
she whispered.
“Go to school.”
“I’m not going anywhere until you tell me the truth.”
“There is no truth!
It was an accident!”
She walked out of the room,
her heels clicking a frantic beat on the tile.
I watched her go,
feeling a cold weight in my stomach.
She was terrified.
But she wasn't terrified of Gary.
She was terrified of the truth.
I went into the living room and looked at the porch light Gary had repaired.
I looked at the sink he had fixed.
Everything he did was a way to bind us to him.
A way to make us dependent.
But he had missed one thing.
Ethan’s memory wasn't like other people's.
He didn't remember feelings or motives.
He remembered details.
He remembered license plates.
He remembered schedules.
And somewhere in that nine-year-old brain,
May you like
was the license plate of the truck that had caused the crane to fall.
And Gary Mills was the man who had been driving it.
