While we were clearing plates, his Aunt Mae smiled at me softly.
“Has Ben told you about Rachel, sweetheart?” she asked, taking a sip of her lemonade. “You know, I always wondered about her… death. I never quite believed that story.”
Ben’s mother didn’t say a word — she just wiped the same clean plate again and again.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
It should have been warm and comforting.
“What story?” Ben asked at the same time, not looking up from his plate.
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“That she was driving. I mean… your license got pulled right after, didn’t it?”
Silence fell over the table.
Aunt Mae set her glass down.
“I’m done covering for you, Benjamin. The truth needs to come out.”
Silence fell over the table.
“That’s old news. No reason to dig it up now. Let Rachel rest in peace.”
I excused myself and went to the guest bathroom. I locked the door and looked in the mirror.
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My husband had been the driver, and he’d let the world believe the story that protected him.
**
On Monday, I walked into his office and closed the door behind me. It was the one place he couldn’t run from me. He was typing something, not bothering to look up at me.
I locked the door and looked in the mirror.
I waited until he did.
“I need to ask you something.”
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“Okay. But it better be good, babe. And quick. I’m in the middle of something.”
He looked curious, maybe slightly guarded.
“Were you driving when Rachel died?”
“It better be good, babe.”
His mouth opened, then closed, and he blinked up at me.
“Ella, we’ve talked about this.”
“No. We haven’t. Not really. I’ve asked questions, and you’ve avoided them all.”
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