Mark opened the refrigerator.
“Do we have beer?”
“Probably.”
He bent down, moved a carton of orange juice, then straightened.
“Where’s Noah?”
“With Rachel.”
He looked at me.
“Why?”
“Sit down.”
Something in my voice finally reached him.
“What’s wrong?”
“Sit down, Mark.”
He slowly closed the refrigerator.
I had put three things on the table.
His handwritten instructions.
The police incident number.
And the piece of notebook paper with Noah’s meals.
Mark looked at the papers.
Then at me.
“What is this?”
I asked, “Who was taking care of my son?”
He didn’t answer.
“Mark.”
His eyes moved back to the table.
“Where’s Noah?”
“Safe.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means he’s with Rachel. Who was taking care of him?”
His face changed.
Not guilt at first.
Calculation.
I watched him trying to figure out how much I knew.
“Mrs. Palmer was right next door.”
“No. She wasn’t.”
“What?”
“She was in Cincinnati.”
He frowned.
“I didn’t know that.”
I slid my phone across the table.
Mrs. Palmer’s message was open.
Leaving Wednesday morning. Back next Tuesday.
Underneath it was Mark’s thumbs-up.
He stared at it.
“Okay. I forgot.”
“You told Noah she was next door.”
“I thought she was.”
“You acknowledged the message.”
“Claire, people send fifty texts a day. I don’t memorize every one.”
I let that sit.
Then I asked again.
“Who was taking care of him?”
Mark pulled out a chair.
“Noah is mature for his age.”
“He’s eight.”
“I know how old he is.”
“Then why are you saying that like he’s thirty-seven?”
He rubbed his face.
“I left food. I left money. He had my number.”
“He ran out of food he knew how to make.”
“There was plenty of food.”
“There were ingredients, Mark. He’s eight. A package of raw chicken isn’t dinner to an eight-year-old.”
“He knows how to use the microwave.”
“Yes. You apparently covered that in orientation.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make me sound like some monster.”
“I haven’t called you anything.”
I pushed Noah’s food list toward him.
“Monday, pizza. Tuesday, mac and cheese. Wednesday, cereal. Thursday, soup. After that, he ate crackers and a granola bar.”
Mark looked at the paper.
“He could have called me.”
“He did.”
“What?”
“Twice.”
“I didn’t get—”
“You didn’t answer.”
“I was on a ship, Claire. Service is spotty.”
I stared at him.
He heard it as soon as he said it.
I didn’t need to point it out.
He looked away.
I said, “Yesterday, he walked to Greenway Market because he needed food.”
Mark’s head came up.
“He walked there?”
“Yes.”
“By himself?”
I almost couldn’t believe the question.
“Who did you think was going with him?”
“Jesus.”
“He sat outside that store from four in the afternoon until they were getting ready to close.”
Mark went pale.
“What?”
“A woman named Denise noticed him. She called me.”
“Why didn’t Noah just go home?”
“Because he didn’t want to be alone in the house after dark.”
Mark sat back.
For the first time since he’d walked in, he had nothing ready.
“He was scared?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I know.”
That seemed to surprise him.
“I believe you didn’t know. You didn’t know because you weren’t there.”
He looked down.
“I checked on him.”
“No. You asked him three questions in three days.”
“I called him once for four minutes.”
“He said he was fine.”
“He’s eight.”
“He would have told me if something was wrong.”
“He apologized to me for bothering me when a stranger called from a grocery store.”
Mark didn’t answer.
I tapped the handwritten instructions.
“You told him not to call me unless it was an emergency.”
“Because you specifically asked me not to bother you with little things while you were working.”
“My child is not a little thing.”
“I didn’t say he was.”
“You made him decide whether being alone was serious enough to interrupt me.”
His voice rose.
“I thought he’d be okay.”
“And he wasn’t.”
“I know that now.”
“You should have known it before you got on the ship.”
That was when he said it.
Maybe because he was tired.
Maybe because he’d run out of explanations.
“The cruise was supposed to be time with my kids.”
The kitchen went very quiet.
I looked at him.
“Noah lives in this house with you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes.”
I nodded slowly.
“I finally do.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then explain it.”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
I almost told him about the reservation.
About Noah’s name on the original booking.
I didn’t.
Not yet.
Instead, Mark noticed Susan’s business card near my purse.
He picked it up.
“What is this?”
“Put it down.”
“You called a divorce lawyer?”
“I called a family-law attorney.”
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