Chapter 2: What a Nine-Year-Old Knew
The notebook was filled with dates.
Eli's handwriting.
Careful and small, the way he wrote when something mattered to him.
Each entry had a time, a place, and a short sentence.
*Oct 3 — Dad said work dinner.
Car was at Lakeview Towers.
I saw it.*
*Oct 11 — Dad on phone in garage.
Said "she can't know." Didn't see me.*
*Oct 19 — Dad's credit card receipt fell out of his coat.
Restaurant on Wabash.
Not a work place.*
I couldn't breathe.
"Eli—"
"I didn't want to scare you." His voice was steady.
"But I didn't want you to be the last one to know either."
My hands were shaking.
There were eleven entries.
Eleven separate dates going back two months.
My nine-year-old son had been quietly collecting evidence while I made dinner, helped with homework, and told myself everything was fine.
"Does Dad know you have this?"
"No."
"You can't let him see it."
"I know."
He looked at me the way children look at their parents when they've already grown past them in one specific, terrible way.
"There's one more thing," he said.
He turned to the last page.
A name was written there.
One I recognized.
Not the brunette from the photograph.
Someone much closer.
Someone who had been in our home.
I looked at Eli.
May you like
He nodded slowly.
"I'm sorry, Mom."
