— I don’t know about that, Tammy, — Marina answered, not taking her eyes off the notebook. — I just know I want justice for Eleanor.
The five-hour wait felt endless. Marina didn’t touch the food Tammy kept urging on her. A glass of tea sat cooling beside her. She remained still, reading and rereading Eleanor’s diary, memorizing every line of pain, every plea, until the words felt branded into her mind. Whenever fear tried to rise in her chest, she opened to the final entry: Marina, help me. Do not let him win. That plea became her armor.
Tammy paced the room, peeking through the curtain now and then, half afraid Andrew might appear. Outside, the sun moved slowly across the sky, unaware of the storm building beneath it. Finally, around four in the afternoon, engines could be heard. Not one car but two pulled up in front of Tammy’s house. Tammy looked out and said:
— They’re here.
Marina stood. Her legs no longer shook. She held the notebook against her chest. There was a firm knock at the door. Tammy opened it. On the porch stood Peter Peterson, flushed from the drive and from controlled anger, jacket in hand, shirtsleeves rolled up. Behind him were two broad-shouldered deputies in uniform shirts.
— Mrs. Sullivan, — the attorney said, — we’re here. We’ve already contacted the local sheriff’s office. These are deputies.
Marina nodded.
— What’s the plan?
— We drive to New Hope now. First we want to see for ourselves what’s happening there. I recommend you stay behind.
— I’m going, — she said, cutting him off. — He needs to see me. He needs to know it was my hand that brought down his lie.
The attorney looked into her eyes. He saw no fragility there now, only resolve.
— All right, — he said. — But stay behind us.
The drive to New Hope was short, maybe twenty minutes. Marina rode in the attorney’s car with Tammy. The deputies followed behind. No one talked. Marina watched the fields and scattered houses through the window, the sky beginning to turn orange with late afternoon light. When they arrived, Tammy pointed.
— That one. Low fence. Toys out front.
Andrew’s house there was the exact opposite of Eleanor’s. It did not hide. It showed off. Modern gray siding with bright orange trim. A front yard with a swing set. Tricycles scattered around. A plastic playhouse. It looked like a cheerful young family’s place.
They stopped a short distance away. And there he was. Andrew, in a polo shirt and gym shorts, looked younger there. More relaxed. He was laughing as he pushed a swing where a little boy—Leo—was squealing with delight. On the porch sat Vera, the woman from the photographs, holding a cold drink and smiling peacefully. It was almost a perfect picture. If not for the fact that it had been built on Eleanor’s suffering.
Marina opened the car door before the attorney could stop her.
— Mrs. Sullivan, wait! — he called, but she was already walking toward the fence with a steady stride.
Andrew heard the crunch of gravel and turned around. He still had a smile on his face. The moment he saw Marina, the smile froze, then fell apart. For one second he looked as if he had seen a ghost. The swing came back and nearly bumped Leo, who let out a startled cry.
— Marina, — Andrew whispered, his voice dry.
On the porch, Vera stood up in confusion.
— Who is that, Andrew? — she asked, not understanding.
Andrew said nothing. Marina stopped in front of him, separated only by the swing. Leo stared at her curiously with eyes that were unmistakably his father’s.
— You told me, — Marina began in a clear, cold voice, — that you were leaving on a business trip. Far away. Gone ten days.
He swallowed.
— Marina, I… this isn’t what it looks like. I can explain…
