As if she were describing a birthday cake.
“You… you saw all of that yesterday?”
“Uh-huh.”
“When you went to get your jacket?”
“Uh-huh.”
I kept my voice as calm as I could.
“Did Daddy tell you anything about those things?”
“Nope.”
She shrugged.
“But Josephine thinks it’s probably a present for you or something. You know Daddy likes surprises.”
Then, just like that, Ava went back to humming one of her favorite songs.
My seven-year-old was completely calm.
I was barely holding myself together.
I drove home carefully because every instinct in my body wanted to slam on the accelerator.
That evening, I fed Ava dinner.
I read her two chapters of her favorite bedtime story.
I kissed her forehead.
Then I went downstairs and sat on the couch with a book in my lap.
I pretended to read.
But I didn’t turn a single page.
At 8:40 p.m., headlights swept across the living room wall.
I stood.
David was home.
I had already decided what I was going to do.
I wasn’t going to confront him inside the house.
I wasn’t going to cry in front of our family photographs.
And I certainly wasn’t going to let Ava hear us arguing.
I was going to meet him in the driveway.
I needed to see the trunk myself.
Part of me desperately hoped the things wouldn’t be there.
Another part of me prayed they would.
If they were gone, I would have nothing but my daughter’s story and Rachel’s call.
It would become my word against his.
David could claim Ava had misunderstood.
He could say she had imagined it.
He could tell me I was overreacting.
But if those things were still in his trunk, there would be nowhere for him to hide.
The porch light flicked on as David’s sedan rolled into the driveway and then into the garage.
I stepped outside and stood on the concrete near the open garage door.
My arms were crossed.
I tried to look calm.
I wasn’t calm.
David climbed out of the car with his usual tired smile.
Briefcase in one hand.
Coffee thermos in the other.
“Hey, you,” he said. “You decided to meet me outside today, huh?”
“Give me your car keys.”
He stopped mid-step.
“My keys?”
“Your car keys, David. Now.”
His face changed.
First confusion.
Then a flicker of panic.
Then a shade of red I’d only ever seen on his face during our wedding when he had tried to give a speech.
“Willow, can we, uh, can we go inside first?”
“No.”
“I had a long day, and I really wanted to—”
“Open the trunk.”
“The trunk?”
“You heard me.”
