Then she looked up.
“Where’s Noah now?”
“With my sister.”
“Good. Does Mark know you’re home?”
“No.”
“Does he know Noah isn’t at the house?”
“No.”
She took off her glasses.
“Keep it that way for the moment.”
That surprised me.
“I was planning to change the locks.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’re married. He lives there, and we are not going to take one bad situation and decorate it with another.”
I almost smiled.
“So I can’t keep him out?”
“I didn’t say that. I said don’t improvise.”
Susan turned my handwritten timeline toward herself.
“Police made a report?”
“Yes.”
“Child services contacted you this morning?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re cooperating?”
“Of course.”
“Good.”
Then she leaned back.
“Claire, I need you to understand something before we talk about separation.”
I waited.
“This isn’t only a marriage problem anymore.”
That sentence landed differently than I expected.
Susan explained that whatever happened between Mark and me was one issue.
The police report and child-welfare investigation were another.
I couldn’t make those disappear by forgiving him, and filing for divorce wouldn’t determine what authorities did either.
“What happens to him?”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Could he be arrested?”
“I can’t predict what law enforcement will do based on what you’ve told me.”
I looked down at my hands.
Susan’s voice softened.
“My advice is simple. Tell the truth. Save everything. Don’t coach Noah. Don’t threaten Mark with consequences. And don’t promise him anything about them either.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“You’d be surprised what people plan after three nights without sleep.”
I liked her.
Not because she told me what I wanted to hear.
Because she didn’t.
The child-services interview that afternoon was worse.
Not hostile.
That would have been easier.
The woman asking the questions was calm and professional.
Had Noah ever stayed home alone?
Twenty minutes once while I picked up a prescription.
Did Mark regularly supervise Noah?
Yes.
Did I know Mark planned to leave Ohio?
No.
Did I know about the cruise?
No.
Who did I believe was caring for Noah while I was in Germany?
“My husband.”
Saying it out loud made me feel stupid.
I knew that wasn’t rational, but there it was.
At one point, I said, “I should have checked.”
The investigator looked up.
“You spoke to your husband while you were gone every day?”
“Yes.”
“And what did he tell you?”
“That everything was fine.”
She wrote something down.
That was all.
No absolution.
No accusation.
Just another question.
By the time I left, I understood something I hadn’t considered on the plane home.
Mark’s decision didn’t just put Noah at risk.
It put me in a position where I had to explain to strangers why I had trusted my husband with my child.
That evening, Mark called.
I was sitting at Rachel’s kitchen table.
Noah was in the family room watching some nature show about sharks.
I almost didn’t answer.
Then I remembered Susan telling me not to start playing games, so I picked up.
“Hey, there she is,” Mark said. “How’s my world traveler?”
There was music behind him.
People talking.
Somebody laughing.
He sounded relaxed.
I looked through the doorway at Noah.
“How’d the presentation go?” Mark asked.
“Fine.”
“Just fine?”
“Client liked it.”
“Knew they would.”
I let him talk.
He complained about the humidity. Said Madison had eaten enough soft-serve ice cream to bankrupt the ship. Mentioned Tyler had finally put his phone down for almost forty consecutive minutes, which Mark considered a parenting triumph.
Then I asked, “How’s Florida?”
There was the smallest pause.
“Good. The kids are having a blast.”
I waited.
Nothing.
No cruise.
No mention of Noah.
So I asked, “How’s Noah?”
“He’s fine.”
I looked at my eight-year-old sitting ten feet away from me.
“When did you last talk to him?”
Another pause.
“What?”
“When did you last talk to Noah?”
“Yesterday. Maybe the day before.”
I said nothing.
“Why?”
“You don’t remember?”
“Claire, I’m on vacation. What’s with the interrogation?”
I almost told him then.
I almost told him everything.
Instead, I asked, “You checked on him?”
“Yes. He’s definitely okay.”
The ease of that answer frightened me more than if he’d gotten angry.
“Okay.”
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. I’m tired.”
“You always get weird when you’re jet-lagged.”
Apparently jet lag had now followed me all the way back to Ohio.
“Get some sleep,” he said. “I’ll call tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
After we hung up, I asked Noah if I could look at his tablet.
He handed it over without asking why.
The messages with Mark were right there.
Saturday:
Everything good, Noah?
Yes.
That evening, Mark had called him for four minutes.
Sunday:
Food okay?
Yes.
Monday:
Need anything?
No.
Tuesday:
Nothing.
Wednesday:
A photo from Mark of the ocean.
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