Keep Them Close(61)

Two instincts pull me in opposite directions. One is the uncle in me, the one who wants to shield him, keep him out of the blast radius, tell him everything’s fine so he can stay a kid a little longer. The other is the brother in me, the one who knows exactly how bad things have gotten and hates the idea of lying to him.

“Gray, did you talk to your mother?”

“No. I just saw Dad.”

“Well, what did he say?”

“I didn’t talk to him. I saw him. He didn’t see me.”

“He didn’t— I don’t—”

“I saw him. In a restaurant. Like sitting by the window. I was on the street. He was with another woman, Luke. He had his hands all over her. What the fuck is going on? He’s cheating on Mom?”

Oh, Finley, you piece of shit. You just can’t help yourself, can you?

“Grayson…”

“Y’know, I always thought he was cheating. I did. I never said anything. Mom always put on her usual brave face and apologized for him. But I knew it. I fucking knew it!”

“Call your mother, kiddo. You owe her that. Call her right now. Okay?”

He exhales hard into the phone. He sounds like he’s outside. “You know something, don’t you? You must know. Mom would’ve told you.”

“I know…that they’re having some problems.”

He bellows out an exaggerated laugh. “The problem is him, that shitbag. Are they even still living together? I always wondered what would happen once I left for college. I could see Mom holding it together just for me while I lived at home, the big happy family and all.”

This is not my place. He needs to talk to Allison.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he pushes. “What, does Dad live in the condo now?”

“I…Gray, I think right now, yes, he’s staying there. Really, call your mom. Please. Call her.”

“I gotta…I gotta go.”

“Listen, Gray,” I say, but the line goes dead.





51


Allison

I work from home tonight so I can look at our financials on the home laptop to see if I can accommodate Finley’s request of a lump-sum settlement.

I sit in the family room, lights dimmed low, the kind of half-light that leaves corners in shadow. The sectional feels oversized with just me curled in it, my knees tucked under a throw blanket I don’t share anymore. The coffee table holds nothing but a glass of water and a book, a bio on Clarence Darrow that I’ve barely cracked for months. No clutter, no shoes kicked off at odd angles, no plates abandoned after late-night snacking.

Through the sliding glass doors, the backyard looks black and skeletal. It’s the last day of March; it should be warmer, brighter, but remnants of snow linger, and the temperatures stay stubbornly below fifty.

I hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the occasional creak of settling wood, but nothing more. No Finley’s voice booming from the next room, no Grayson clattering in from practice or dropping his backpack in the hall. Just me. The silence used to feel like an occasional luxury. Now it feels permanent.

In the family room, I pull the blanket tighter and listen to the furnace kick on. This is what I wanted, my choice. But now the house feels like it’s listening, waiting. One day soon, I know, this quiet will become its own kind of noise.

My phone buzzes. Caller ID says Finley.

I don’t have an answer for him, not fully, at least. I’ve spent the last hour going over our holdings, calculating the penalties for early withdrawal, accounting for capital gains taxes. As far as I can tell, giving Finley his half, the best I could do for a lump-sum payment would fall short of $1 million, not even half of what he demanded.

“Hi, Fin,” I answer.

“Did you enjoy yourself yesterday?” he says, his words slurred from alcohol.

“I wouldn’t call any of this enjoyable.”

“Oh, I think you enjoyed yourself. Lording your money over me? Making me beg? Guilt trips and humiliation, your specialties? I think you fucking loved it.”

“Fin—”

“I want two million dollars. Not a penny less. And you pay for Gray’s education out of your half.”

I pause a beat, to make sure there’s no punch line to follow. “But I already told—”

“I don’t care what you told me,” he says. “I don’t care what you have to liquidate. Liquidate it! Two million or else.”

“Or else? Or else what, Fin?” I don’t hide the exhaustion in my voice.

“Or else that video goes viral,” he says.

I pop off the couch, nearly tangling my foot in the blanket.

“Hello?” he sings. “Still there, wifey? You sure got quiet all of a sudden.”

“What…what video—”

“The ‘school security video’?” he says. “Are you familiar with it? Boy, what a show!”

A slow burn works through my chest. Luke made good on his threat. He showed Finley that video. “Finley, please—”

“Oh, you do know what I’m talking about. So I imagine it’s worth quite a bit to you. Say, two million dollars?”

It was one thing if Luke had these videos. Luke, I could contain; I could hurt him right back with that audio recording. Mutually assured destruction would deter him.