Chapter 7: The Longest Night
Tara sat down.
Not because my dad told her to.
Because Gary was there, and the spreadsheet was there, and there was nowhere left to stand that wasn't already occupied by the truth.
"Twenty-six thousand dollars," my dad said.
"Plus the wire transfer.
That's over thirty-seven thousand dollars, Tara."
"The wire transfer was a loan—"
"To a man you told me you hadn't seen in years.
A man whose photograph I found in our bathroom cabinet dated eight weeks ago." My dad's voice was controlled.
Careful.
Like he was handling something that might break if he gripped it too hard.
"So before you explain anything, I need you to understand that I already know the shape of it.
I just need to hear it from you."
Tara looked at Gary.
"Can he leave?"
"No," my dad said.
She pressed her lips together.
Looked at the table.
"Marcus was in debt," she said.
"Serious debt.
The kind that doesn't come from banks."
"What kind?" Gary said.
She glanced at him.
"Gambling.
He owed money to people who weren't patient about it.
He called me last year and he was scared.
I couldn't just—" She stopped.
"I couldn't do nothing."
"So you took money from our household account," my dad said.
"Without telling me.
For nineteen months."
"I was going to tell you."
"When?"
She didn't answer.
"When the debt was paid?
When Marcus was safe?
When it was over and you could present it as something that had already been resolved so I couldn't object?" My dad leaned forward.
"When exactly, Tara?"
"I knew you'd react like this."
"Like what?
Like a man who just found out his wife has been stealing from him for a year and a half?"
"It wasn't stealing—"
"What would you call it?"
The kitchen went quiet.
The refrigerator hummed.
The spreadsheet sat on the table between them like a third person in the conversation.
"I would call it a mistake," Tara said.
"A serious mistake that I made because I panicked and I didn't know how to ask for help."
"You could have asked me," my dad said.
"That's what I'm here for."
Something moved across Tara's face.
For a moment — just a moment — she looked like she might cry.
Not the calculated kind of tears I'd seen her use before to end arguments.
Something that looked more real than that.
"I know," she said quietly.
"I know I could have."
"But you didn't."
"No."
My dad sat back.
He looked at Gary.
Gary looked at the table.
"I need to know one more thing," my dad said.
"And I need you to tell me the truth.
Whatever it costs you, tell me the truth."
Tara waited.
"Is Marcus Hale more than a friend?"
The pause before she answered was three seconds long.
I counted them.
"He was," she said.
"Before you and I got together.
When he called last year, it wasn't—" She stopped.
Started again.
"I told myself it was just helping an old friend.
But I know how it looks.
I know what I let it become."
"What did you let it become?"
"We met twice.
I told myself both times it was just to discuss the money situation.
But—" Her voice dropped.
"But I knew it wasn't only that.
And I didn't stop it."
My dad stood up from the table.
He walked to the kitchen window and stood with his back to all of us, looking out at the dark yard.
Nobody spoke.
After a long time, he said, "I want you to go stay somewhere else tonight."
"David—"
"I'm not asking you to leave permanently.
I'm asking you to give me tonight." He turned around.
His face was exhausted in a way I'd never seen before.
"Can you do that?"
Tara looked at him.
Then at me.
Whatever she saw in my face, she didn't argue.
She picked up her phone from the table.
Stood up.
Walked to the hallway.
"I'm sorry," she said from the doorway.
"I know that doesn't fix it."
"No," my dad said.
"It doesn't."
Her footsteps went upstairs.
We heard the sound of a bag being packed.
Then the front door, opening and closing one more time.
Gary reached over and folded the spreadsheet.
"You all right?" he said.
My dad sat back down at the table.
He looked at the folded spreadsheet.
Then at me.
"Come here," he said.
I sat down next to him.
He put his arm around my shoulders the way he used to when I was small, and I leaned into him, and neither of us said anything for a while.
"I'm sorry," he said finally.
"For today.
For not seeing it sooner."
"You saw it," I said.
"When it mattered."
He didn't answer.
But his arm tightened slightly around my shoulders.
Outside, Tara's car started in the driveway.
The headlights swept across the kitchen wall.
Then she was gone.
May you like
Gary quietly closed his laptop.
And my dad picked up his phone and called the lawyer.
