Confessions on the 7:45(73)

It wasn’t what she expected him to say, and the words landed heavily on her shoulders. He didn’t know what Graham was capable of doing to another person. Neither, it seemed, did she.

“I’ll take you to your Mom’s?”

“I need my car.”

“So, we’ll drive your car and I’ll Uber back to get mine.”

She wanted to drive alone, but she let him help her load the car with the suitcases, the small bins of books and toys she’d taken from the boys’ room.

Their room—Star Wars sheets, airplanes hanging from the ceilings, soccer trophies, action figures, shelves of toys and games—which she had decorated so carefully—seemed abandoned. The house, lovingly decorated—every drape and pillow, every hue of paint and placed object, curated by Selena. Without the energy of their bustling life, it all seemed cheap, empty, a body without a soul.

“Have everything you need?” Will asked.

She nodded, hefting a box, which he took from her. They walked into the garage.

The police had impounded the SUV that Graham drove Friday night. So there was only their Subaru in the garage. They loaded the car, and then they climbed in.

“Ready?”

“Let’s go.”

She pressed the button on the remote and the door opened. The growing crowd of journalists parted as the car pulled out. They were shouting, snapping pictures.

Will had coached her to keep her expression neutral and her eyes forward, betraying nothing of the roil within. She did that.

Where’s Geneva? What’s happened to the Naughty Nanny? Did your husband kill her?

They sounded like seagulls, clamoring and calling, their words nonsense. She was grateful for the dark tinted windows of the car. She was so tired, so numb. She could sleep for a thousand years.

“They can’t hold him much longer,” Will was saying. “There’s no physical evidence. They let Erik Tucker go. There’s no body or really any indication of foul play.”

“They can keep him there for the rest of his life for all I care.”

“Selena.”

The ride was smooth and quiet. She felt ensconced, isolated from other cars on the road, as they drifted down her street and away from the mob. No one followed them. They took the little-known back roads that wound and twisted to her mother’s house.

“Detective Crowe asked if I was angry, if I’d thought about hurting Geneva,” she told Will. “Like he thought maybe I had something to do with this.”

Will shook his head in disapproval. “You should never have talked to him.”

“I know.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. He knows my schedule for that day. The weekend is documented on social media. I’m sure he can discern where I was and what I did via my smartphone data. They have video of Geneva leaving our house unharmed on Friday. I think he was just goading me. Trying to get me to react.”

She stopped short of telling Will she wanted to come clean with the police about the woman from the train. Something inside kept her from uttering the words. Why?

Maybe because more than anything, Selena wanted this to just go away. Was that still possible?

She spent the rest of the ride turning back the clock. If she’d left after the sexting. Or after the Vegas incident. How would things be different? But you couldn’t do that, could you? Not when there were children, people formed from your love for someone. There was no undoing the bad without losing the good. That was the trick of it all. The tangle of life. Just move forward, recalculate, recalibrate, find a new path.

There were no reporters at her mother’s place, and they pulled into the garage that had been left open in anticipation of their arrival. They sat a moment after Will killed the engine. It ticked in the silence that fell. She didn’t want to go inside; she couldn’t go home. She let herself sit a moment, collect her resources to deal with the boys.

“I wish...” Will started, putting his hand over hers.

Beth’s warning rang in her ears. It was solid advice from a good friend. What she needed was space and time, to find her footing.

“Don’t,” she said. He kept his eyes on her. She felt the heat of his gaze, though she didn’t return it.

“That I went to that party with you.”

It wasn’t what she expected him to say. She turned to look at him. He ran a hand through those wild honey curls.

“What party?” she asked.

“The night you met Graham. Remember?”

She remembered. Of course she did.

Cora and Paulo’s garage was meticulously organized—tools hung, bicycles on racks, kids’ gear from scooters to roller skates mounted or in clear bins. A stupid thing to notice, except that it struck a stark contrast to the disorder in her own life.

Will’s voice was soft when he spoke again. “I was supposed to go with you. But I had to work late.”

“Don’t do this,” she whispered.

He lifted his palms. “I’m just saying. How would things be different?”

“You don’t have kids,” she said. “It’s easy to say you regret how things went. But I have Stephen and Oliver.”

“I know. Just—”

“Don’t.”

He nodded slowly, dipped his head. She flashed on the younger version of him, a day at the beach when he was tan and laughing, their toes buried in the sand. The girl who loved him was so free; she didn’t even know what freedom was then. Was he controlling? He used to buy clothes for her. She remembered liking that, that he knew her size, what looked good on her. But, yeah, sometimes she wore things she didn’t like to please him.