Her eyes were swollen, but her voice was calm.
“Thank goodness you’re finally home.”
I nodded at the suitcase.
“Why is that sitting there?”
She stood.
“Scott, I can’t keep pretending nothing is wrong.”
“Why is Molly’s suitcase packed?”
“Because maybe she needs to spend some time with Jean.”
Jean lived twenty-five minutes away and saw Molly every other weekend.
“Have you already talked to her?”
Tara hesitated.
“We discussed the possibility.”
“Discussed what?”
“Whether Molly would be more comfortable somewhere else for a while.”
I could not believe it.
“My daughter was accused less than sixty minutes ago, and you’ve already decided she should leave home?”
“Accused?”
Tara’s voice cracked.
“I’m supposed to be her stepmother.”
“And I’m supposed to protect my daughter.”
“Then start doing that.”
She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
“I’ve done everything for that girl, Scott. I’ve been patient. I’ve respected her boundaries. But I refuse to live somewhere I feel I have to lock up my own things.”
My eyes went back to the table.
Four fifty-dollar bills and five twenties.
Exactly three hundred dollars.
“Where was this money?”
“In a zipper pocket inside her backpack.”
“Did she say where she got it?”
“She says Grandma gave her the cash.”
“Jean sometimes gives Molly money.”
“Three hundred dollars?”
Tara folded her arms.
“Where would a girl like her get three hundred dollars?”
I did not answer.
I did not know the answer.
“And where is the rest?” she added. “The other nine hundred.”
“What do you mean?”
“She must have hidden it somewhere. Or spent it. I don’t know, Scott. Ask her.”
A door opened at the end of the hallway.
Molly stood in her school jeans and an old green sweatshirt, her brown hair pulled back, her face the color of milk.
She froze when she saw me.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
She didn’t answer.
Tara turned on her at once.
“Your dad’s here. Are you finally ready to tell us what really happened?”
