Chapter 2 - The Silent Ride Home
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The drive back to our estate was suffocatingly quiet.
The snow had started falling heavier, coating the windshield in thick, icy sheets. The rhythmic scraping of the wipers was the only sound in the car. Daniel gripped the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were bone-white.
I sat in the passenger seat, staring out into the darkness. I didn't yell. I didn't cry. Crying was for women who didn't know what to do next. I knew exactly what I needed to do. I needed to understand the architecture of the betrayal.
“It wasn't what it looked like,” Daniel finally spoke, his voice cracking the silence.
I didn't turn my head.
“What part, Daniel? The part where she sat on your lap, or the part where you gave her fifty thousand dollars of our money without telling me?”
“She begged me, Claire,” Daniel pleaded, glancing at me. “She came to my office looking terrified. She said Mark was dangerous. She said if I told you, you would confront Mark and put everyone in danger.”
“And you believed her.”
“She was shaking!” Daniel defended himself, his tone rising in desperation. “She showed me bruises on her arm. She said she needed cash to secure an apartment and a lawyer before he found out she was leaving.”
I slowly turned to look at him.
“Ashley bruises easily because she gets cosmetic injections every two weeks, Daniel. Not because Mark hits her.”
Daniel’s face drained of color in the dim light of the dashboard.
“I didn't know that,” he whispered.
“You didn't ask,” I corrected coldly. “You didn't talk to your wife. You kept a massive secret with another woman. My sister.”
“I was trying to help your family!”
“Don't dress up your ego as charity,” I snapped, the anger finally bleeding into my voice. “You liked it. You liked that she came to you instead of me. You liked playing the powerful savior to the helpless little sister.”
Daniel pulled the car into our long, circular driveway and slammed the car into park. He turned to me, his eyes wide and panicked.
“Claire, I swear on my life, it was just the money. I just wrote her a check from my private business account. That’s it.”
I unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbing my designer clutch.
“I want the bank statements on the kitchen counter by tomorrow morning,” I demanded.
May you like
“Claire, please.”
“If they aren't there,” I said, opening the car door and letting the freezing wind whip through the cabin, “I will call Mark myself and tell him exactly what his wife has been doing.”
