Chapter 8 - The Three-Block Drive|
The three-block drive felt like navigating through a thick, suffocating fog.
My mind was spinning out of control. Images of my wife on her knees, my newborn son screaming in his crib, my sister’s weeping voice, and my mother’s cold, calculated smile flashed across my eyes in a dizzying loop.
How had I been so blind?
For six years of marriage, Emma had occasionally tried to set subtle boundaries with Vivian. She had gently requested that Vivian not drop by unannounced, or asked that my mother stop re-organizing our kitchen cupboards without asking.
And every single time, I had played the mediator. I had kissed Emma’s forehead and whispered, "She’s just trying to help, honey. You know how she is. She just loves us so much."
I felt an overwhelming wave of nausea wash over me.
I hadn't been a mediator. I had been an enabler. I had handed my sweet, gentle wife over to the same monster who had tormented my sister twenty years ago.
I pulled my car up to the curb two houses down from my property, turning off the engine so the sound wouldn't give me away.
Tearing my eyes back to my phone screen, I saw that Vivian had stepped out of the bedroom, leaving Emma slumping on the floor, holding her surgical wound while silently crying. Vivian was currently strolling down the hallway toward the kitchen, humming a cheerful church hymn as if she hadn't just committed an act of unspeakable cruelty.
Suddenly, a sharp screech of tires sounded behind me.
I looked in my rearview mirror. A silver sedan pulled up to the curb behind my car.
The driver’s door flew open, and Natalie stepped out.
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She wasn't wearing her usual polished business attire. She had kicked off her high heels, her hair was wildly disheveled from running her hands through it, and her eyes were fierce, burning with a lethal combination of trauma and rage.
In her right hand, she clutched an old, battered, yellowed legal envelope.
