Chapter 3: Your Sister Never Complained
Marcus didn't move for a long moment.
The lake was behind the house.
I could hear it.
Small waves against the dock.
A bird somewhere in the pines.
"What does Patrice have to do with this?" he said.
Diane set the invoice down on the porch railing.
Smoothed it once with her palm, like it was a tablecloth at a dinner party.
"Patrice understood that things cost money.
She never made it into a scene."
"Mom." His voice had changed.
Lower.
"Did you bill Patrice?"
"I helped with those children for three years.
Three years, Marcus.
Every school holiday, every time Derek had a work trip.
I was there."
"Did you send her invoices."
It wasn't a question anymore.
Diane picked up the paper and folded it once, precisely, along the center.
"I kept records.
That's not a crime.
A person has a right to keep records of their own time."
Marcus turned to me.
I watched something move across his face — not anger, not yet.
Something closer to recognition.
Like a word he'd been trying to remember for years had just surfaced.
"She stopped bringing the kids up here," he said.
Not to me.
Not to Diane.
Just out loud.
"Four years ago.
Derek said she needed space.
I thought it was the marriage."
"The marriage was fine," Diane said.
"Then why did she stop coming?"
Diane lifted her chin slightly.
"You'd have to ask her."
My phone was in my pocket.
I already knew what I wanted to do with it.
"I'm going to call her right now," I said.
"This is a family matter." Diane's voice sharpened for the first time.
"Between Marcus and me."
"I'm Marcus's wife.
Ellie is my daughter.
That invoice has my child's name on it." I took the paper from the railing before she could stop me.
"This is very much my matter."
She reached for it.
I stepped back.
"How much?" Marcus asked.
His eyes were on his mother.
"How much did you charge Patrice?"
The smile was completely gone now.
What was left was something careful.
Calculated.
"That's between Patrice and me."
"She's my sister."
"And she handled it like an adult.
Without standing on my porch making accusations."
"I'm not accusing you of anything yet." Marcus's jaw tightened.
"I'm asking you a question.
How much did you bill her?"
Diane picked up her coffee cup from the porch table.
Took a slow sip.
Set it back down.
"Enough," she said, "that she knew I was serious."
The word landed like something dropped on concrete.
Marcus pulled out his own phone.
He pressed Patrice's name and lifted it to his ear.
We stood there on the porch — the three of us — while it rang.
Five times.
Six.
Voicemail.
"Patrice.
It's me.
Call me back as soon as you get this.
It's about Mom." He paused.
"It's important."
He ended the call and looked at Diane.
She was watching him with an expression I hadn't seen on her before.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Patient.
Like she'd done this before and knew exactly how it ended.
"You should go," she said.
"Ellie will be wondering."
I looked at the invoice in my hand.
The logo.
The columns.
The total in bold at the bottom.
Two hundred and nine dollars.
For a six-year-old's weekend with her grandmother.
I folded it and put it in my bag.
"We're not done with this," Marcus said.
"Of course not." She picked up her coffee again.
"You never are."
We walked back to the car.
I got in.
Marcus sat in the driver's seat and didn't start the engine for a full minute.
From the back seat, Ellie said, "Is Grandma mad at us?"
Marcus looked in the rearview mirror.
"No, baby.
Grandma's fine."
He started the car.
His phone lit up on the console before we'd reached the end of the driveway.
Not Patrice.
A text from a number I didn't recognize.
*Marcus.
It's Derek.
Please don't call Patrice about your mother.
I'm asking you as a favor.
May you like
She's not in a good place right now.
There's a lot you don't know.*
