Chapter 3: The Person on the Stairs
“Come down,” Noah called.
“Now.”
A bedroom door opened.
My son appeared at the top of the stairs with his backpack over one shoulder and my old laptop pressed against his chest.
“Ben?”
“I’m sorry, Mom.”
Noah pointed upstairs.
“Put that back.”
“No.”
Ben descended slowly.
He was twenty-two, but the fear in his face took me back to the little boy who used to crawl into my bed during thunderstorms.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I came through the side door.
Grandma texted me and told me not to come, so I knew something was wrong.”
Diane closed her eyes.
Noah stepped between us.
“He broke into my desk.”
“It’s Mom’s desk too.”
“You took private property.”
“I took something that belongs to her.”
Ben set the laptop on the dining table.
Noah reached for it, but I moved in front of him.
“Don’t,” I said.
His hand stopped inches from my shoulder.
“Rachel, he’s confused.”
My own name sounded strange in his mouth.
Ben opened the laptop.
“Tell her about the memory card.”
Diane gripped the back of a chair.
“What memory card?” I asked.
Noah gave a short laugh.
“This is ridiculous.”
“The one from your car,” Ben said.
“The car you sold two days after the accident.”
My knees weakened.
Six weeks earlier, I had awakened in a hospital with a bandage above my eyebrow and no memory of how I got there.
Noah told me I had driven after an anniversary dinner and struck a cyclist on Mill Road.
The woman survived, but I had spent every night hearing Noah’s words.
You could have taken a life.
“Ben,” I whispered, “your father said the camera was destroyed.”
“It wasn’t.
The insurance yard found it under the passenger seat.”
Noah’s voice hardened.
“That footage is corrupted.”
“You told me you’d never seen it.”
“I was trying to protect your mother.”
“From what?” Ben demanded.
“The truth?”
Noah grabbed the laptop lid, but Diane caught his wrist.
“Enough,” she said.
He stared at her.
“Think carefully.”
“I have,” she replied, though her hand was trembling.
Ben inserted a tiny card into the side of the computer.
Noah turned to me.
“Rachel, you told Diane you were having memory problems.
You said you frightened yourself.”
“I said I forgot why I walked into a room.
I said I was exhausted.”
“You said you didn’t trust yourself.”
“And you decided that meant I caused an accident?”
“I decided our family needed protection.”
Ben struck a key.
The screen brightened.
A dark road appeared, followed by the pale reflection of two people in the windshield.
“Stop it,” Noah said.
Ben pressed play.
The image shook, then sharpened.
Noah was behind the wheel.
May you like
I was unconscious in the passenger seat.
And just before the car left the road, Noah reached toward my cup and said, “She won’t remember any of this.”
