If You Must Know (Potomac Point #1)(24)

Anyone paying attention would raise an eyebrow. A woman in my shoes—very tattered ones at that—hardly had all the answers. But I did know a few things about life and people. “You’ve had a few days to process this. Did you expect me to simply smile and ask for seconds?”

My mom closed her eyes with a dramatic sigh. “We promised Kevin we’d fill you in. What’s done is done. I don’t have to answer to you or him, but if your father were here, he’d expect you both to support your sister. I know my opinion never mattered much to you, but his did, so I hope you’ll think about that.”

She marched off to check on Amanda. I scratched my head, literally, unsure how I’d become the bad guy when clearly Lyle deserved that title. If anything, this conversation—this blame when I’d done nothing wrong tonight—confirmed my decision not to breathe a word about what I’d witnessed this past winter. Better I find some way to make Lyle pay for what he’d done than to stick my own neck in the noose.

And yet knowing that they’d never forgive me for my silence irked me because Amanda was already angling to forgive Lyle. Quite ironic—or hypocritical. If I wanted to cast up her mistakes, I could go all the way back to third grade, when then-sixth-grade mean girl Missy Pendleton teased me for dressing in the orphan look from Anastasia. Instead of sticking up for me, Amanda kept quiet. She never, ever made waves. In that particular case, it could’ve been because she’d agreed with them or because she’d wanted to be part of that cool crowd more than she’d cared about my feelings.

Not sure. Never asked.

My appetite had long fled, so I wrapped my food in foil for later, loaded my dish into the dishwasher, and walked out the door.

Tonight sure had screwed up any zen I’d found at the retreat. Getting away from this side of town and home to Mo and my Etsy stuff couldn’t happen fast enough. The ride flew with my legs pumping hard enough to burn off the energy I might’ve turned on Lyle and Ebba had they been around.

Mo greeted me with his good cheer despite having no idea how badly I needed those sloppy kisses. Once he settled, I went to the crate where I stored the coconut oil, then hefted a five-pound bag of sugar, some food coloring, and a variety of essential oils onto the table. Before locating the measuring cups and spoons, I went to my room to pick some music—maybe Bowie.

I flung open the armoire—and then my heart stopped.

Empty!

All my albums were gone, along with all Max’s clothes.

No. No, no, no, no!

I sprinted back to the kitchen to find my phone and then dialed Max. Not shocking that he didn’t answer. My fist hurt from beating out a steady rhythm on the counter while waiting for the flippin’ beep.

“Max, if this is some idea of a joke, I’m not laughing. You’d better bring my albums back over here right now or I will call the cops.” I was not my sister, in case that wasn’t already clear.

I hung up. The pulse point at the base of my neck throbbed like the opening of Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher.”

I began tearing the apartment apart, looking under tables and the bed, inside other drawers, behind the curtains. Anyplace I could think where he might’ve hidden the records to mess with me.

It took only about ten minutes—one benefit of a shoebox-size apartment—to confirm that Max hadn’t merely pulled a prank. He still hadn’t returned my call, either. Tears backed up on me, making my throat ache. My albums. My one lasting comfort and connection to my dad and what he loved. I pictured him up in heaven, shaking his head at all of us.

I flopped onto the couch. Mo jumped up beside me, seeking another belly rub. Mindlessly, I indulged him. It’d be awesome if a belly rub could fix all my problems.

If Max didn’t call me by morning, I’d ask Rodri to have him arrested. Truthfully, though, if Max scratched any of those records, I might be the one who ended up in jail.





CHAPTER FIVE

AMANDA

Little Laticia Nelson pressed so close to me she was practically sitting in my lap. She flipped back to the first page of Olivia. “Mrs. Foster, read it again.”

Mrs. Foster. The name I’d proudly taken two years ago might be usurped by Ebba. Bitterness bloomed.

“How do we ask nicely?” I nudged gently, redirecting my thoughts. All around us, boys and girls played on the checkerboard carpet or colored at the art table beside the reading nook.

“Please!” She clapped her hands together and quivered as if forced to trap all her energy in her body.

Someday not long from now, my own daughter might also love to be read to over and over. The anxiety of becoming a single parent tainted that joyful thought. So did sorrow that my daughter might not ever live under the same roof with her father. And shame for not seeing any of it coming.

I looked at page one and began. “This is Olivia . . .”

“Okay, kids, let’s clean up,” Darlene Silvestri, my coteacher, called out. “It’s time to go.”

A quick glance through the classroom door’s window revealed parents waiting to collect their kids. Now and then a dad showed up instead of a mom or other caregiver. With Lyle’s being his own boss, I’d been anticipating picking up our daughter together and having lunch before he returned to work. Would that be another dream lost? “Sorry, sweet pea. We’ll read it again on Wednesday. Please go put this back on the shelf so we know where to find it, okay?”