Chapter 2: What Lauren Knew
The drive home was silent.
Emma had finally stopped crying, but every few minutes, she made a tiny sound in her sleep, and each time she did, my stomach tightened.
James kept both hands on the steering wheel.
His jaw was set.
The dashboard lights painted half his face blue in the dark.
I stared out the passenger window at the passing houses and tried to understand how one sentence could make my whole life feel suddenly unfamiliar.
Ask your wife what happened before you came home.
What did Lauren mean?
What was there to ask?
I glanced at James.
He didn't look at me.
"Are you angry?"" I whispered.
"Yes.""
The answer came instantly.
I swallowed.
"At me?""
"No.""
His voice was controlled, but I knew him well enough to hear what was underneath it.
Rage.
Not the reckless kind.
The kind he kept locked behind his teeth.
I looked down at Emma.
Her little red sleeve was tucked beneath her chin. There was no bruise on her cheek. I had checked three times before leaving my parents' house.
Still, the image wouldn't leave my head.
Lauren's hand.
That sound.
That awful, flat smack.
"She shouldn't have touched her," I said.
James' fingers tightened around the steering wheel.
"No," he said.
"She shouldn't have.""
We drove another block.
Then he asked, "Did she mean something specific?""
"I don't know.""
"Has she said anything like that before?""
"No.""
He looked at me briefly.
"Anna.""
I turned toward him.
"Tell me the truth.""
"I am.""
"All of it.""
Something about the way he said those words made my chest tighten.
I rubbed my palms against my jeans.
"I haven't hidden anything from you.""
"I didn't say you had.""
"You sounded like you did.""
"I'm trying to understand why your sister thought I was protecting you from something.""
"I don't know.""
The silence returned.
At the next red light, James leaned back slightly and closed his eyes.
"When was the last time you spoke to Lauren before tonight?""
"Last Sunday.""
"What did you talk about?""
"Emma. Money. Mom's plans for Christmas.""
"Anything else?""
I hesitated.
He noticed.
"What?""
I stared at the windshield.
"There was an argument.""
"What kind of argument?""
"It wasn't important.""
"Anna.""
I exhaled.
"She asked if you were really coming home.""
James turned his head.
"Why would she ask that?""
"I don't know.""
"What did you tell her?""
"That your deployment had been extended once already, but you were scheduled to be home.""
"And?""
"I told her I missed you.""
James' expression softened for a moment.
"Then what?""
I looked down at my hands.
"She said I should stop waiting for someone who might not come back.""
The light turned green.
James drove through the intersection without saying anything.
My throat felt dry.
"I thought she was just being cruel.""
"Was she?""
"I don't know.""
He was quiet for so long that I finally turned toward him.
"James.""
He nodded once.
"Okay.""
"Okay what?""
"I believe you.""
The relief that should have followed never came.
Because I knew James.
When he said he believed me in that tone, it didn't mean the subject was closed.
It meant he was filing away every detail.
Building a picture.
Looking for the missing piece.
When we reached our house, I carried Emma inside while James grabbed the diaper bag.
The house smelled faintly of the pumpkin candle I'd left burning before we left that morning.
Normal.
Warm.
Safe.
For a few seconds, I stood in the nursery doorway and watched Emma sleep.
James came up behind me.
"Put her down.""
I lowered her carefully into the crib.
She stirred.
Her mouth puckered.
Then she settled again.
I pulled the blanket over her legs and stood there with my hand resting on the crib rail.
James remained in the doorway.
"She'll be okay," he said.
I nodded.
"I know.""
But my voice broke anyway.
He walked over and wrapped his arms around me.
I pressed my face against his chest.
He smelled like cold air and laundry detergent.
For six months, I'd imagined this exact moment.
Having him home.
Holding him.
Feeling like I didn't have to be strong every second of every day.
Instead, I whispered, "I feel like everyone knew something except me.""
James kissed the top of my head.
"Then we're going to find out what they knew.""
I pulled away.
"Tonight?""
"Tonight.""
We went into the kitchen.
James filled a glass of water and set it in front of me.
"Start with Lauren.""
"What about her?""
"Everything that's happened since I left.""
I stared at him.
"There isn't much.""
"Then this won't take long.""
I almost smiled.
Almost.
I told him about the calls Lauren had made.
The comments.
The arguments.
The way she had started showing up unannounced.
The way she had once opened the nursery door while Emma was sleeping and stood there for several minutes without speaking.
When I finished, James leaned against the counter.
"Why didn't you tell me about that?""
"I didn't want to distract you.""
"You were allowed to call me.""
"I knew you were already dealing with enough.""
He shook his head.
"That wasn't your decision to make.""
"I know.""
He was quiet.
Then he asked, "Anything else?""
I frowned.
"What do you mean?""
"Anything strange.""
I thought about it.
Then remembered.
"She asked for money.""
"How much?""
"Five thousand.""
James' eyes narrowed.
"When?""
"About two months ago.""
"And you gave it to her?""
"No.""
"Why?""
"She wouldn't tell me what it was for.""
He nodded slowly.
"What did she say?""
I searched my memory.
"She said she was in trouble.""
"What kind?""
"She wouldn't say.""
"Who was after her?""
"She never said.""
"Did you ask?""
"Of course.""
James' expression became colder.
"And what did she tell you?""
"She said, 'You wouldn't understand.''"
He pushed away from the counter.
"Interesting.""
I looked up.
"What?""
He walked to the kitchen drawer and pulled out the small notebook where we kept household expenses.
He flipped through several pages.
"You know how much money she borrowed from your parents?""
I blinked.
"No.""
"Did your father ever mention it?""
"No.""
James turned the notebook around.
I'd seen the numbers before, but never connected them.
There were three withdrawals from our joint family account.
Small ones.
Then larger ones.
Over several months.
"What's that?"" I asked.
"Your mother transferred money to your sister.""
I stared at the page.
"How do you know?""
"Your dad mentioned it once when we spoke while I was deployed.""
"What?""
James looked at me.
"He asked whether you knew.""
I felt cold.
"And what did you say?""
"That I didn't.""
"Why didn't you tell me?""
"Because he asked me not to.""
I stood so quickly that my chair scraped the floor.
"He told you not to tell me?""
"Yes.""
"James, how much?""
He looked back at the notebook.
"About eighteen thousand dollars.""
I stared at him.
"Eighteen thousand?""
"Give or take.""
A laugh escaped me.
It wasn't because anything was funny.
It was the sound people make when reality gets too strange to process.
"My sister borrowed eighteen thousand dollars from my parents, and nobody thought I should know?""
James didn't answer.
I walked toward the window.
The neighborhood was dark and still.
A porch light flickered across the street.
"That still doesn't explain what she said.""
"No.""
He came to stand beside me.
"Which means we're missing something.""
My phone vibrated on the counter.
I froze.
James looked at it.
Unknown number.
8:47 p.m.
I picked it up.
There was one message.
*You need to ask your husband what Lauren was doing while he was deployed.*
My fingers went numb.
James took the phone from my hand.
He read the message once.
Then again.
"Who has this number?"" I asked.
"Family. Friends. People from your contacts.""
"Could it be Lauren?""
"Maybe.""
He typed something.
Then stopped.
"What are you doing?""
"Checking the number.""
My phone buzzed again.
Another message.
This one contained a photograph.
I opened it before James could stop me.
It was a picture of Lauren standing outside a building at night.
I recognized the building immediately.
It was our house.
My breathing stopped.
In the photograph, Lauren wasn't alone.
A man stood beside her.
I didn't recognize him.
James zoomed in.
His entire posture changed.
"Who is that?"" I whispered.
He didn't answer.
"James?""
He stared at the man's face.
Then he quietly said, "I know him.""
I looked at my husband.
"From where?""
He handed me back the phone.
Before I could speak, another message appeared.
*Ask James why he never told you that man came home with him.*
And beneath it was a second photograph.
This one was older.
Taken six months earlier.
At the airport.
James was walking away from the terminal.
And beside him was the same man.
The man from the picture outside our house.
I looked at my husband.
He didn't look away.
For the first time since he'd come home, James looked genuinely shaken.
"Anna," he said quietly, "there's something I need to tell you.""
Then his phone began to ring. A number I had never seen before.
James looked at the screen.
His face went pale.
May you like
"Don't answer that," he said.
The phone kept ringing.
