Chapter 5: Her Version of the Story
I passed my math test.
Mrs.
Ellison handed it back two days later with a red 94 at the top and a small note in the margin: *Excellent work on the equations, Nia.*
I folded it carefully and put it in my backpack.
At home, things had gone quiet in the way that precedes weather.
My father had moved into the guest room.
He said nothing about it directly.
He simply appeared at breakfast from the wrong direction, and Caleb and Ava pretended not to notice, and I pretended along with them.
Vanessa made breakfast every morning as if nothing had changed.
Eggs, toast, juice on the table for everyone.
She set my plate down the same as the others.
She did not speak to me directly, but she did not block the refrigerator either.
The lock was gone.
But something else had taken its place.
A watchfulness.
A waiting.
On Thursday, my father came to pick me up from school.
He was parked at the curb when I came out, which he never did on a workday.
I got in and he pulled away before I had my seatbelt fully clicked.
"I need to tell you something," he said.
"And I need you to hear it before Vanessa does."
"Okay."
"I spoke to a family attorney yesterday.
Just to understand our options."
I looked at him.
"Are you getting divorced?"
"I don't know yet.
That depends on some things." He kept his eyes on the road.
"What I do know is that what has been happening in that house is not acceptable.
And it cannot continue."
"What did Vanessa say?
When you talked to her the other night?"
He was quiet for a moment.
"She said you've been difficult since she and I got married.
That you resent her.
That the things Caleb and Ava described were misunderstandings or exaggerations."
"And the lock?"
"She said it was a temporary measure after the money went missing.
She said she planned to remove it once trust was rebuilt."
My hands were flat on my knees.
"Do you believe her?"
"No," he said.
Without hesitation.
"I believe Caleb's list."
Something loosened in my chest.
"But Nia, she's also saying something else." He slowed for a red light and finally looked at me.
"She's saying that if I pursue this — if I involve anyone outside the family — she will tell her version of events to anyone who will listen.
Her family.
My colleagues.
The school."
"Her version being that I'm a troubled teenager who steals and lies."
"Yes."
The light changed.
He drove.
"She's trying to make you afraid," I said.
"I know."
"Are you?"
He considered it.
"I'm concerned about what it would put you through.
Having people question you.
Having to defend yourself."
"I've been defending myself inside that house for eight months," I said.
"At least outside I'd have a chance."
He looked at me again.
Something in his face shifted — not breaking this time.
Settling.
"There's one more thing," he said.
"She mentioned a name.
Someone she said could confirm her version of events."
"Who?"
He turned onto our street.
"Your aunt Denise."
I went very still.
Aunt Denise was my mother's sister.
She and Vanessa had become close in the past year — a friendship I had never understood and never trusted.
"What does Denise have to do with any of this?"
May you like
My father pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.
"That," he said, "is what I'm trying to find out."
