Chapter 4: How Much Does She Know
I heard it clearly.
Diane pulled the phone slightly away from her ear, but not far enough.
*How much does she know?*
Not: *Is she all right?*
Not: *What happened?*
Not: *Is Noah okay?*
The first words out of my husband's mouth were a calculation.
My father heard it too.
He didn't look at me.
He kept his eyes on Diane, which was the kindest thing he could have done in that moment, because it meant I had three seconds to pull myself together before anyone saw my face.
"Come home, Ethan," Diane said quietly into the phone.
"Now."
She ended the call without answering his question.
The porch was very still.
Jess had taken a small step backward toward the front door.
She had her arms crossed now, holding her own elbows, and she was looking at a spot somewhere between the porch boards and the yard below.
"I want the keys to the SUV," my father said to Diane.
She blinked.
"Excuse me?"
"The vehicle Camila purchased and has been making payments on.
The keys.
Now."
"The car is registered in Ethan's name.
Until this gets sorted out—"
"It was purchased with Camila's money from her account," Dad said.
"I know this because I helped her with the down payment.
You are holding property that does not belong to you.
The keys."
Diane's jaw tightened.
"You can't just come onto my property and—"
"I'm not arguing with you about this." He reached into his jacket pocket and took out his phone.
"I can make one call and have a JAG officer here within the hour.
Military legal counsel.
They work quickly.
Or you can hand over the keys and we can have a conversation like adults.
Your choice.
You have thirty seconds."
"You're bluffing," Diane said.
My father looked at her without blinking.
"Fifteen seconds," he said.
Her hand moved to her pocket.
She pulled out the key fob and placed it on the railing next to his card.
She did it the way someone puts something down that they are not finished fighting over — not surrendering, just pausing.
Dad picked it up and handed it to me without a word.
I closed my fingers around it.
It was such a small thing.
A piece of plastic and metal, still warm from her pocket.
But my hand was shaking.
"You should know," Diane said, looking at me now instead of my father, "that Ethan was going to tell you himself.
He's been trying to find the right moment."
"For three months," I said.
She didn't flinch.
"It's complicated."
"It doesn't look complicated."
"You don't understand what Ethan has been going through.
Losing his job, the pressure, the—"
"Diane." My voice surprised me.
It came out steady.
"My son is eleven months old.
I have been working full time, paying every bill, and walking home on a sprained ankle because you decided I didn't deserve to drive my own car.
Do not tell me what complicated looks like."
She opened her mouth.
She closed it again.
Headlights swept across the front yard.
A car I didn't recognize pulled up behind my father's SUV.
The engine cut.
The door opened.
Ethan got out.
He saw my father first.
Then he saw me.
Then his eyes moved to Jess, still standing near the door, still holding her own arms.
He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps.
For a long moment he didn't say anything.
He just stood there in the yellow porch light, looking between all of us, doing the same calculation his first question had already revealed.
Then he said, "Camila.
May you like
Let me explain."
And Jess, very quietly, from behind us all, said: "Ethan, don't."
