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FIFTY-ONE

“NO, GRACE,” I SAY into my earbuds as I pull out of the parking lot. It’s Wednesday, and I’m still on edge. “We talked about this. I’m picking you up from school. Don’t walk home.”

“Why not?”

How about because I said so? Does that ever work anymore?

Better than the real reason — I’m freaked about that car watching our house last week around three in the morning. Because I don’t want the kids coming home before I’m there. Because I’d like to have armed escorts follow them everywhere they go until I know what the hell is happening to our family.

“Just … wait for me, Grace. You and Lincoln. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

My stomach aching, and not from hunger, I navigate around some cars in traffic, being more impatient than usual. I’m halfway to the school when I see flashing lights behind me. A cop pulling me over? Now? Great.

I pull over to the side of the road on 3rd Street. I retrieve my license and registration. Was I speeding? I probably was.

In the rearview mirror, I see a familiar face approaching.

I buzz down the window. “Kyle?”

He leans in, jaw set, his mouth a straight line. Upset at least, if not angry.

“You were speeding and committed improper lane changes, just for the record,” he says. “It’s a valid stop.”

Probably so, but that’s not why he’s pulling me over.

“I have to get my kids,” I say. “Can we make this fast?”

“Can we make this fast? Sure, Marcie, we can make this fast. Here’s fast for you. Have you been playing me all along?”

“I don’t — huh?” I put the car into Park and shake my head. “I don’t under —”

“You know why people are doing things to your family, don’t you? You’re acting as if all this bizarre stuff is happening and you have no idea why.” He makes a show of it with his hands. “But you know why. Right?”

“Kyle.” I reach out, but he steps back.

“Put your hands on the steering wheel, Marcie.”

“Are you kidding?” I search his face but find nothing suggesting it’s a joke.

“That’s a lawful order from a sworn officer. Hands on the steering wheel. You’re a former defense lawyer, right? You know the drill.”

“Um. Oh-kay.” I wrap both hands around the steering wheel. “I am no longer a threat to your safety, Sergeant. Now would you please tell me what you think I’ve done or what you think I know?”

My concern edging toward anger, too. But my heart is racing. Kyle knows something that I don’t.

He leans in again, his face coloring. “You brought this to our town. You brought him to our town.”

“Brought who to our town? Kyle, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Your husband,” he snaps. “Tell me his name.”

“His name? You mean like his full name? David Christopher Bowers.”

He stares at me for what seems like forever, searching my face, while he seethes. I’ve known Kyle most of my life. He’s always been physical — a wrestler and football player, a handyman, later a cop — but his demeanor was always genial. Probably too laid-back for my liking at the end of the day. But in all those years, I have never seen pure rage on his face, as I do now.

“He was an orphan, right?” he says. “Parents died in a house fire when he was a toddler? So any photos of him with Mom and Dad would’ve burned up. No phone cameras back then, no cloud backups. So no photos of him with his parents. That’s convenient.”

“Kyle,” I say, surprised at the weakness in my voice.

“Then, what, he bounced around foster homes? So nobody he’d call Mom or Dad or Stepmom and Stepdad or any family at all. Probably no photos, or at least no photos he kept. Also convenient. Basically, no evidence at all of his childhood.”

I shake my head. “You’re saying … you’re saying David isn’t really …”

Overload. Failure to compute. This can’t be right. This isn’t true. But he seems so sure of himself.

“Marcie, I am going to give you one more chance.” Kyle draws out each word, his voice shaking. “This time, I want David’s real name.”