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“Theo, right?” Greg always refers to him as the neighbor boy, but this close, it’s obvious he’s a full-grown man.
“That’s right.” He extends his hand as though it’s something he’s been taught to do, not something that comes naturally.
“We’ve met before. Remember the fire? I helped your mom. I’m Amy.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“You said that before.”
“You shouldn’t let him hurt you like that. Amy.” The way he says my name as a full sentence catches my attention. “What about the children?”
As he eagerly awaits my response, he glares at me through narrowed eyes. “Theo,” I say, with broad emphasis, trying his tactic on for size. “You, of all people, should know better than to believe the things you hear.”
“Didn’t hear it.” He shakes his head from side to side. “I saw it.”
“What you saw was wrong. And also none of your business.”
Greg exits the garage. Theo makes eye contact briefly. He pats my car door. “Okay. Bye.” I watch as he starts for the fence line. Over his shoulder, he mumbles something. I can’t say for sure exactly what that something is, only that it sounds an awful lot like, “The children are my business.”
Greg opens the door. I exit and walk over to the passenger side. He hops into the driver’s seat. As I buckle my seat belt, he looks over at me. “What was that all about?”
“He saw the video.”
“Where are we going?” I ask every few miles.
My husband doesn’t answer. He simply smiles and grips the wheel. He drives out of the neighborhood and past the neighboring housing developments, until we’re on an old farm road, surrounded by nothing but rolling hills. I ask again.
“I told you it’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises,” I say as the woods grow thicker and the road grows thinner. Farmland spans for miles on all sides.
“You remember that place we took Christmas photos of the girls that time?”
I don’t really, but if I think hard enough, I vaguely recall it. That was at least four years ago. “Sure.”
He nods at the backpack he carries his laptop in. It’s on the floorboard of the backseat. “Check it out.”
“A picnic?” I ask, jokingly.
His bottom lip juts out, and then his mouth twists. “Um. Wish I’d thought of that.”
Reaching for the backpack, I pull it onto my lap. He looks over at me and smiles. “Go for it.”
As I unzip the bag, my throat hitches. “What the hell?”
Inside is the handgun I purchased. The gun I thought was stolen. Along with another pistol I’ve never seen before.
“Surprise!”
“Why didn’t you tell me? All this time you made me think someone took it. You made me think Jack Mooney took it.”
“You should have been honest up front. You weren’t.”
I shrug. “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”
“You should have come to me.”
My eyes widen. “I did.”
