Chapter 7 - The Drive Home
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The drive from Frisco back to our home in North Dallas took exactly forty-two minutes.
The silence inside the cabin of my truck was thick, insulated from the hum of the highway tires and the occasional passing headlights. I kept both hands on the steering wheel, my eyes fixed on the red taillights ahead of me.
Lorraine sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window into the darkness. She hadn't spoken since we left the driveway.
I didn't try to fill the silence with empty reassurances. After forty-one years of marriage, you learn that some pain simply requires room to breathe.
When we finally pulled into our own driveway, the familiar brick facade of our home offered a small measure of comfort. I turned off the engine. The sudden quiet was heavy.
“He didn't even look at me, David,” Lorraine whispered, her voice cracking slightly in the dark cabin.
I turned my head. The glow from the streetlamp illuminated the faint, devastating tracks of tears on her cheeks.
“When she told me to leave,” Lorraine continued, her hands gripping her small purse tightly in her lap. “I looked right at him. And he stared at his plate. My boy. He let her do it.”
I reached across the console, covering her trembling hands with my own.
“He was paralyzed, Lorraine,” I said softly. “He’s been drowning in that marriage for three years, trying to keep the peace with a woman who demands absolute surrender. He failed you tonight. But he also finally saw her for what she is.”
“I furnished that house,” she murmured, resting her head against the headrest, closing her eyes. “I picked out the curtains. I painted the nursery they said they wanted. It was all a lie.”
“The house is just wood and drywall,” I reminded her, my thumb gently tracing the back of her hand. “We will sell it. We will wipe the slate clean.”
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Lorraine opened her eyes, turning to look at me. The deep, resilient strength that had carried us through four decades of life returned to her gaze.
“We aren't just selling the house, David,” she said, her voice finding its steady rhythm again. “We are going to find out exactly why she needed four hundred and ten thousand dollars. Because a woman like Brooke doesn't forge a deed unless there is a fire she’s desperately trying to put out.”
