Chapter 2 - THE BACK SEAT
The heavy beams of headlights swept across our living room blinds, painting long, eerie shadows across the hardwood floor.
My heart hammered violently against my ribs.
“Mom, stay back,” Lucas whispered, his voice dangerously low as he snapped his laptop shut. He grabbed his backpack, shoved the blue folder inside, and zipped it with one sharp pull.
“That’s Dean’s car,” I breathed, staring at the slats of the blinds. “He told me he was going back to the corporate office to prep for the board meeting. Why is he turning back into our driveway?”
“He forgot something,” Lucas said, his eyes scanning the room like a young general assessing a battlefield. “Or he realized he left the second copy of the divorce agreement on the counter.”
I looked down at the coffee table. The thick stack of papers Dean had dropped twenty minutes ago lay right where he had left them, glowing white in the dim afternoon light.
“The papers,” I whispered.
Before I could move toward them, the front door handle jiggled.
Click.
The lock didn’t give. Dean didn’t have a key to the new deadbolt I had installed last winter—a petty act of domestic independence that suddenly felt like a lifeline.
A sharp, authoritative knock rattled the wood.
Bang. Bang.
“Marissa!” Dean’s voice boomed through the solid oak door, stripped of all its corporate charm. “Open up. I know you’re in there.”
Lucas grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly strong. He pulled me toward the dark, narrow hallway leading to the back pantry and the basement stairs.
“Go through the utility room,” Lucas hissed softly. “Take my car keys off the hook. Go to Grandma’s old Buick in the garage. Wait for me there.”
“Lucas, no,” I protested, my protective instincts flaring. “I’m not leaving you here alone with him.”
“Mom, look at me,” Lucas said, stepping directly in front of me. For a split second, I didn’t see the quiet boy who hid behind a computer screen; I saw my father, Walter Hale, staring out at me with eyes carved from absolute granite. “He thinks I’m a pushover. He thinks you’re broken. Let him keep thinking that for forty-eight hours. Go.”
Another heavy blow struck the front door, the wood groaning beneath the impact.
“Marissa! Open this door right now, or I’ll call a locksmith and have you thrown out of your own house by tonight!” Dean shouted.
I didn't argue anymore. I grabbed Lucas’s spare car keys from the ceramic bowl by the kitchen entrance, slipped through the pantry, and vanished into the dim, cool air of the garage.
The garage smelled faintly of motor oil, old lawnmowers, and the lingering scent of my father’s pipe tobacco—a ghost of the man who had built Redstone Building Supply with his own calloused hands.
I slid into the driver’s seat of Lucas’s battered sedan, ducking my head below the window line. My hands shook so badly I missed the ignition slot twice before the engine finally rumbled to life.
I didn't turn on the headlights. I simply pressed the garage door opener button.
The heavy metal door groaned upward, letting in the gray, cold light of the Dallas dusk. I eased the car out into the alleyway just as Dean’s black SUV slammed its brakes in our driveway.
May you like
Through my rearview mirror, I watched Dean storm out of his vehicle, shouting my name into the empty evening air.
I didn't stop. I pressed the gas and disappeared into the twilight.
