“Yes.”
“Does it contain documents from Rachel’s box?”
Claire swallowed.
“Copies.”
He set it on the cargo floor.
Did not open it.
Not yet.
A strange calm had settled over him.
“Why hide copies beneath the trunk floor?”
“I didn’t hide them.”
“You stored them under a panel nobody uses.”
“I wanted privacy.”
“For what?”
Claire’s voice broke.
“Because I knew you would react exactly like this.”
Ethan stared.
“You knew I would react badly to you secretly copying my dead wife’s trust records.”
“See?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Dead wife.”
“What?”
“Always dead wife.”
Claire wiped one cheek.
“Never old documents. Never family records. Never estate planning.”
Ethan looked at her.
“Because they belonged to Rachel.”
“And Rachel belongs to everything.”
Sophie pressed her face against Ethan’s neck.
Claire saw.
Her eyes hardened.
“There.”
“What?”
“That.”
She pointed.
“She hears Rachel’s name and immediately clings to you.”
“She’s scared.”
“She knows how to make you choose.”
Ethan stared.
“She is five.”
Claire laughed.
“You think five-year-olds don’t understand attention?”
“I think a five-year-old should not have to compete with your insecurity.”
Claire looked as if he had struck her.
Ethan continued.
“You were allowed to hate living with Rachel’s memory.”
Her eyes filled.
“You were allowed to tell me that.”
She said nothing.
“You were allowed to ask for changes.”
Silence.
“You were not allowed to lock my child in a closet because she found you taking documents.”
Claire looked toward the house.
“It wasn’t because of that.”
“Then why today?”
“She broke a glass.”
Sophie shook her head.
“Stop.”
Ethan looked at her.
“I didn’t.”
Claire laughed bitterly.
“Of course.”
Sophie started crying again.
Ethan felt her body tense.
He looked at Claire.
“No.”
“What?”
“You don’t get to do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make every disagreement proof she lies.”
Claire stared.
Ethan continued.
“Not today.”
He carried Sophie back inside.
The black document case remained in the garage.
So did Claire.
For the next twenty minutes, Ethan did something he wished he had learned years earlier.
He did not investigate.
He did not interrogate.
He fed his daughter.
Peanut-butter toast.
Apple slices.
Milk.
Sophie sat at the kitchen island with one foot tucked beneath her.
Ethan sat beside her.
Claire remained outside on the patio making phone calls.
Ethan could see her through the glass.
Pacing.
Crying occasionally.
Then typing.
He did not care who she called.
Not yet.
He watched Sophie eat.
Halfway through the toast, she asked:
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“For going in your office?”
“No.”
“You said I can’t play there.”
“You weren’t playing.”
“I wanted tape.”
“That’s allowed.”
She studied him.
“What if I broke the glass?”
Ethan froze.
“Did you?”
Sophie looked down.
“I knocked it.”
There.
Truth.
He waited.
“It fell.”
“Okay.”