“Don’t worry about it. I can see you’ve got your hands full. Something will come up. Always does, right?”
I picked up my bag and made my way to the door.
“Hey, Hil …”
I turned, praying inside he’d had some change of heart and come to his senses; some realization of what he was putting me through.
Jim winked, holding Luke upside down. “You’re looking good, Hil. You really are.”
I knew if I didn’t get out of there now, I was going to cry.
Back in my car, any semblance of control completely broke down. Tears filled my eyes even before I put the key in the ignition. I could take the whole new family thing—Jim playing überdad—even though it did eat at me where the hell he’d been for the last four years with Brandon. I could even take the spanking-new Porsche, which alone would have paid a couple of years of tuition.
What I couldn’t take was that he’d basically just washed his hands of us. When he could see I was falling. How could you just look at me and say that, Jim? I put my head against the wheel and shut my eyes. About your own son?
It was clearly all on my shoulders now.
I started the car and it took everything I had not to ram it headfirst into Jim’s Porsche and leave it a mound of crumpled steel. I backed out of the driveway and almost made a U-turn a block away, then regretted that I hadn’t.
You could sue his ass, Hil, I said to myself as I drove. There were deadbeat laws. No judge in the world would side with him. But I knew Jim’s assets in his own name might even be less than mine. He was probably down to his ski jacket and a pair of Cole Haans.
And that would all take time. And lawyer’s fees. Money I didn’t exactly have right now. Even if there was something left to take. Whatever was left was surely now in Janice’s name.
What I had to do was figure out how to get through the next two months.
I put the radio on, 1010 WINS news. A Pakistani minister had been blown up in a suicide attack. Residents of Staten Island were still angry over delays in storm relief. Something about a Connecticut politician whose wife had tragically drowned on a family vacation in South America. I winced, suddenly aware of my own blessings. Whatever I was going through, at least Brandon was healthy and alive.
It was 7:36. I’d promised Elena I’d be back by eight. Two things were going around in me.
First, that I would do anything for my son. Anything. Whatever it took.
Any mother would.
And the other, my mind drifting to the satchel in the woods, was that I’d already made enough bad choices that had put me in this situation.
So what was one more?
Which was basically what I was dwelling on when I realized I’d already driven past the highway and was headed back toward the accident site.
As I got near, the road narrowed to a single lane, yellow police tape now marking off the site. Three county police cars and a tow truck were there, all kinds of lights flashing.
I slowed. I couldn’t see if the Honda had been removed. It seemed that it hadn’t. I figured there had to be all kinds of people getting things together down there. With everyone traipsing around, who knew if the satchel hadn’t already been discovered?
Who knew if now they were looking for the person who had flung it there?
I went over what I’d told Rollie. “I’m Jeanine …” That was all. No Hilary. No last name. I knew I’d touched a couple of things—the car doors, the victim’s cell phone—but even if they were able to remove my fingerprints, they certainly weren’t anywhere in the system. Nerves suddenly wormed their way through my stomach on whether, if it came to it, Rollie could have ID’d my car.
No. I was sure. I’d parked a ways down the road.
I felt pretty safe.
Which didn’t completely eliminate my fear that the part of the county police force that wasn’t currently on site here would be waiting for me at my house.
They weren’t. Though I did let out a sigh of relief as I drove up the cul-de-sac Jim had developed and into my driveway. Only Elena was there, putting on her coat when she heard me come in through the kitchen door.
“How was he?” I asked, coming in from the garage.
“Eezy tonight, missus.” Her English wasn’t exactly the best, but she was devoted to Brandon and indispensable to me. Not to mention that my son adored her. “Heez in the bed.” She grabbed her bag. “I be in tomorrow at ten. And don’t worry, I pick him up at school.”
“Elena …” I was trying to decide how I should tell her. That I was going to be around for a while. That I had no idea how long I could keep her on, with her present hours. She was like part of the family to me.
“Sí, missus …?” She looked at me with those round, trusting eyes.
“Nothing. I’ll probably be here in the morning, okay?” I knew there had to be some kind of explanation. “Drive home safe.”
She smiled brightly. “Good night, Miz Cantor.”
I closed the door behind her and went through the large brick-and-glass neoclassic Jim had constructed, which was now buried in debt. I had tried to refinance it for years and pull out whatever equity I still had in it, but with home prices still down and Jim’s credit a mess, it simply wasn’t in the cards. Since Jim’s name was still on the note, he was supposed to pick up half of the $1.6 million, interest-only debt, $4,290 a month, a parting gift from the days when lenders were throwing loans at his business. Even though rates had dived in the past year, now I’d have to disclose that I no longer had a job and that Jim’s company had closed. God only knew what workout committee that would put me in. I was scared I could lose the house. In today’s market, the place might go for only 1.6, $1.7. The truth was, I couldn’t leave and I could no longer afford to stay. As it was, I was only praying that some loan officer wouldn’t be reviewing the loan and call me to tell me they were foreclosing.
“I’m home, Brand!” I shouted into his room. “I’ll be up in a minute …”
I went up to my bedroom. High ceilings, a Palladian window overlooking the pool. Which last year I didn’t even open in order to save on the cost. I pulled off my sweater and jeans and threw on the pajama bottoms and yoga T-shirt I usually crawled into bed with. In the bathroom, I pulled my bangs into a scrunchie and took off my makeup. I had short brown hair, a small nose, and wide hazel eyes that I worried were starting to show the strain of everything. I was only thirty-six, had always been told I was pretty, Natalie Portman pretty. But my days of wishing for some handsome knight were over. Everything was all in my hands now.
I went into the kitchen and put on some water for tea, then back down the first-floor hall to Brandon’s room. He was curled up in his bed, playing on his iPad. A design app called FLOW, which always intrigued him, muttering, “Tie, tie, tie, tie …” to himself, which he often did when he was in his own world.
“Hey, guy.” I sat on the corner of his bed.
He didn’t answer, just kept swirling the colorful arrows on the app with his index finger.
“Cool design!” I curled up on the bed next to him.
I always said there were two of him: Sweet Brandon and Mean Brandon. Mean Brandon was where he would say to people who were averting