Chapter 7: What Marcus Knew
I waited two days before I asked.
I needed the space.
I needed to watch Ethan move through our house, feed our sons, wash bottles one-handed with his cast propped on the edge of the sink, and I needed to decide what I was actually looking at.
By the second evening, I knew.
He wasn't performing.
He was just Ethan — careful, attentive, slightly too quiet in the way he got when something was sitting heavy on him.
The same man I'd married.
With a secret he'd carried badly.
That night, after the boys were down, I poured two glasses of wine and set them on the kitchen table.
He sat across from me and waited.
"Dana told the police that Marcus knew your name," I said.
"She mentioned it when she called back.
She said he'd asked her — specifically — whether Ethan was the one helping her."
Ethan's glass stopped halfway to his mouth.
"How did he know your name?" I asked.
A long pause.
"He saw a text," Ethan said.
"On Dana's phone.
A few weeks ago, before she moved.
He went through her phone while she was sleeping and he saw my name."
"What did the text say?"
Ethan set his glass down.
"She'd asked me whether she should go to the police about him.
I told her yes.
I told her she had enough — the messages he'd sent, the times he'd shown up — and that she should document everything and file a report."
"And he saw that."
"Yes."
"So he knows you've been advising her to go to the police."
"Yes."
I turned my wine glass slowly.
"Has he contacted you directly?"
Ethan's jaw tightened.
"Once."
"When?"
"Four days before the accident."
I put my glass down.
"Ethan."
"He called my work number.
He told me to mind my own business.
He said—" A pause.
"He said if I kept interfering, I'd regret it."
The room went very quiet.
"And the accident," I said slowly.
"The car that T-boned you."
"The police said it was a red light violation.
The other driver was cited."
"Did you see the other driver?"
"No.
I was — it happened fast."
"Did you give that name to the police?
Marcus?"
He looked at me.
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't know that it was him.
I don't have any proof.
And if I'm wrong—"
"If you're wrong, the police investigate and find nothing." I stood up.
"If you're right and you say nothing, he tries again."
Ethan was very still.
"You have to tell them," I said.
"Tomorrow morning.
You call the detective on the accident report and you tell them about the phone call and you give them Marcus's full name."
"Dana said his last name is Vreeland.
Marcus Vreeland."
"Then that's what you give them."
He nodded slowly.
I picked up my wine.
Walked to the window.
Outside, the street was quiet, the neighbor's porch light making a small yellow circle on the pavement.
"I need to ask you something," I said, without turning around.
"And I need you to answer me honestly, even if you think the honest answer will hurt me."
"Okay."
"Do you have feelings for her?
Not necessarily romantic.
But — do you care about her in a way that goes beyond what you'd feel for a colleague you were helping?"
Silence.
"Yes," he said.
"But not the way you mean.
It's — I told you about Claire."
His sister.
The one who'd died.
"Dana is the same age Claire would have been," he said quietly.
"She has the same way of apologizing for things that aren't her fault.
The same look when someone is kind to her, like she can't quite believe it's real." He stopped.
"I know that's not an excuse for keeping secrets.
I just — I need you to understand what I was actually feeling.
Because you asked me to be honest."
I stood at the window for a long time.
"Thank you," I said finally.
"For telling me that."
"Nora—"
"Call the detective in the morning." I turned around.
"And then we're going to figure out the rest.
Together.
But Marcus Vreeland comes first."
I went to bed.
And for the first time in four days, I slept.
What woke me at 6 AM wasn't the boys.
May you like
It was Ethan's voice from the kitchen, sharp and low.
"What do you mean she's in the hospital?"
