Not fear.
Not yet.
But attention.
“What else did he tell you?”
Eleanor folded her hands.
“That you were unhappy.”
“I have been.”
“That you might want to sell the house.”
I went still.
“I never said that.”
She looked at me.
“He said you wanted a fresh start.”
“When did he say this?”
“Rachel—”
“When?”
“Maybe six weeks ago.”
I thought back.
Six weeks ago, Daniel had suddenly become very interested in the value of houses on our street.
He had shown me an article about the Chicago market.
He had asked whether we still had the appraisal from our refinance.
At the time, I assumed he was curious.
Now I wasn’t sure.
“Did he say why I wanted to sell?”
Eleanor’s expression tightened.
“He said your job might relocate you.”
“That’s not true.”
“He said you were considering Atlanta.”
“My company never offered me Atlanta.”
“I only know what my son told me.”
I looked at her carefully.
For the first time, Eleanor seemed uncertain.
Not guilty.
Not defensive.
Uncertain.
“Did Daniel ask you for money?” I said.
She blinked.
“What?”
“Recently.”
“That’s none of your business.”
“He’s my husband.”
Her face closed.
There it was.
A boundary.
Which meant there was something behind it.
“Did you give him money?”
“I said this isn’t your business.”
My pulse quickened.
“How much?”
“Rachel.”
“How much?”
Eleanor’s voice hardened.
“Forty thousand dollars.”
The hallway seemed to narrow.
I stared at her.
“What?”
“It wasn’t all at once.”
I could barely hear her over the sudden rushing in my ears.
