She looked around the table, at the folders, the spilled wine, the frozen faces. Then she looked at Derek and said, in a calm, even voice, "Derek Bennett? I'm Detective Ruiz with the Summit County Sheriff's Office. I'd like you and your mother to come with us, please."
"This is insane." Derek's voice cracked. He turned to his brother. "Kyle. Tell them. Tell them she's not well. You know she's not well—"
Kyle stood up slowly. He set down his folder.
"I watched the video, Derek," he said.
"Kyle—"
"I watched Mom crush the pills. I watched you nod."
"It's not what it—"
"I saw it." Kyle's voice broke. He was crying. He stepped away from the table, away from his brother. "I don't know who you are."
Derek stared at him. For a long moment he swayed on his feet, like a man on a ship in bad weather.
Then something in him gave.
I watched it happen. I watched my husband's shoulders drop and his hands fall open, and the whole careful, charming, trustworthy structure he'd built over nine years slide off his face. What was left underneath was small and terrified and forty years old.
"I was going to fix it," he said hoarsely. "I swear to God, Nora. I was going to fix all of it."
"I know you thought so," I said.
The deputy stepped forward.
"Derek Bennett, you're under arrest for forgery, tampering with records, and felonious assault."
The handcuffs clicked.
Lorraine rose from her chair, trembling. The detective read her a similar statement, more quietly, and she nodded and let herself be led toward the door, small and gray in her plum-colored dress.
At the threshold, she turned back.
"Nora," she said. "Is Eli—"
"Eli is safe," I said. "And he's going to stay safe."
She bowed her head.
They led them out. The door closed. Through the front window, I watched red and blue lights wash softly across the lawn, across the pumpkin on my porch, across the two figures in the back of the cruiser.