Chapter 7: The Man With the Truck
I found the address on the business website Tom had shown me.
A residential street in Millbrook, twenty minutes from my house.
The landscaping company operated out of a property there — I could see the truck in the driveway on Google Street View, same one from the website photo.
I went the next morning.
I left Danny with Marcus.
I didn't tell Tom.
I didn't tell Marcus where I was going.
I just drove.
I parked across the street.
The truck was there.
The house was a rental — I could tell by the way nothing matched, the mismatched mailbox, the landlord's lockbox still on the door frame.
A light was on inside.
I sat in the car for five minutes.
Then I got out, crossed the street, and knocked.
He answered faster than I expected.
He was taller in person.
He looked at my face and knew immediately who I was — I could see it happen, the recognition, the calculation, the decision about what expression to wear.
He settled on calm.
Almost sympathetic.
"You must be—"
"I have your phone," I said.
I held it out.
He took it.
Looked at the screen.
Looked back at me.
"I think we should talk," he said.
"I don't."
"Look, I know how this looks—"
"I'm not here for a conversation.
I'm here because I wanted to see your face." I kept my voice level.
"I wanted to look at the man who was in my house.
Who my son called uncle.
Who picked out my son's Christmas gift and sent a message at six in the morning to make sure he got the credit for it."
Something moved behind his eyes.
Not guilt.
Something more defensive than that.
"Danny's a great kid," he said.
The words landed like a hand on my chest.
"Don't," I said.
"Don't say his name to me."
"I wasn't trying to replace you—"
"You were in my house while I worked nights to pay for it.
You let a seven-year-old boy bond with you knowing you had no intention of being there permanently.
You sent a message this Christmas morning that told my wife to make sure my son knew you picked his gift." My voice stayed flat.
"That's not a man who wasn't trying to replace me.
That's a man who was."
He looked at the phone in his hand.
Then back at me.
"Lauren and I—"
"Are done," I said.
"Whatever you thought this was going to become — it's done.
She's not going to choose you.
And even if she did, you will not be in my son's life.
I want you to hear that from me directly.
Not through lawyers.
Not through her.
From me."
His jaw tightened.
The sympathetic expression dropped.
"You don't get to make that call," he said.
"If Lauren and I—"
"My son," I said.
"My name on his birth certificate.
My eleven years.
You've had fourteen months of Tuesday and Thursday nights.
Don't tell me what calls I get to make."
He stepped forward.
Not aggressively — but forward.
"You should be careful," he said.
"About what you think you know.
And about what you think you can prove."
I looked at him for a long moment.
"I have your phone," I said.
"I had it for twenty-four hours before I gave it back.
Think carefully about what that means."
I turned and walked back to my car.
He didn't call after me.
I heard his door close before I reached the curb.
I sat in the driver's seat and put both hands on the wheel.
My hands were shaking.
Not from fear.
From the effort of staying still when every part of me had wanted to do something I couldn't take back.
I drove home.
Marcus was at the kitchen table when I got in.
Danny was in the backyard.
Marcus looked at my face.
"Where did you go?"
"I returned the phone."
A long pause.
"And?"
"And nothing.
I said what I needed to say."
Marcus was quiet for a moment.
"Did he threaten you?"
I thought about *you should be careful.* About *what you think you can prove.*
"He tried to," I said.
Marcus nodded slowly.
"Call Tom."
"I know."
"Today."
"I know, Marcus."
Danny came in through the back door, cheeks red from the cold, asking if we could have hot chocolate.
I looked at my brother.
May you like
"Yeah, buddy," I said.
"We can do that."
