Chapter 7: The Suitcase
Jason set his coffee down.
He went to the bottom of the stairs and looked up.
"Melissa."
No answer.
The dragging sound continued.
"Melissa." His voice was louder this time.
The sound stopped.
"I'm going to my mother's," she called down.
"I need a few days."
Jason put his hand on the banister.
He didn't go up.
He stood there at the bottom of the stairs with his hand on the banister and his coffee going cold on the counter behind him.
I kept my voice low so only he could hear.
"Let her go if she needs to go."
He turned to look at me.
"She needs to feel like she has somewhere to move," I said.
"If you block the exit, she'll fight.
If you leave it open, she has to choose whether to walk through it."
He looked back up the stairs.
Melissa appeared at the top with a weekend bag over one shoulder.
She was dressed now, composed again, her face arranged into something that was not quite anger and not quite calm — something in between that I had seen before on people who have decided they are the injured party and are waiting for someone to confirm it.
She came down the stairs without looking at me.
"I'll call you tonight," she said to Jason.
"We should talk before you go."
"I need space to think."
"Melissa—"
"Jason." She stopped on the bottom step.
They were the same height there.
"I have been trying to talk to you about your mother for two years.
Two years.
And every single time, you have made me feel like I was the problem." Her voice was steady.
"I'm not the problem."
"I'm not saying you are."
"Then let me go."
He stepped back.
She moved past him toward the door.
She picked up her keys from the hook on the wall.
She opened the door.
Then she stopped.
She turned around, and she looked directly at me for the first time since the kitchen.
"I know what you're doing," she said.
"And it won't work."
I didn't answer.
She left.
The door closed behind her.
Not a slam.
A click.
Owen slid off his stool and went to Jason and wrapped both arms around his father's leg without saying anything.
Jason put his hand on the boy's head.
Lily looked at me.
"Is she coming back?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"She's coming back."
I believed that.
I also believed that when she came back, things would be different — one way or another.
The kind of conversation that was waiting in this house could not be postponed much longer.
Jason lifted Owen onto his hip and carried him to the couch.
He sat down heavily.
"The fourteen thousand dollars," he said quietly, so the children wouldn't hear.
"I looked at the account again this morning.
There were three deposits last month.
All cash.
All on weekdays, between nine and noon."
"When you're at work."
"Yes."
I sat down in the armchair across from him.
"Jason.
Is there anyone in Melissa's life — a friend, a family member — who might know where that money is coming from?"
He thought for a moment.
"Her sister," he said.
"Dana.
They talk every day." He paused.
"Dana never liked me.
But she's always been honest.
Bluntly honest."
"Would she talk to you if you called?"
He looked uncertain.
"She might," he said slowly.
"If she thought Melissa was in trouble."
Owen had fallen asleep against Jason's arm, boneless and trusting the way only small children can be.
"Call her," I said.
May you like
Jason looked at his sleeping son.
Then he reached for his phone.
