He Picked the Wrong Wife to Sacrifice for His Sister novel · Chapter 1 of 24
Chapter 1: The Chat
Lena sends four files of proof into the Carraway family chat while her husband pounds the door; the next morning her mother-in-law says the police are coming and Laney has named Lena as the driver.
By the time my husband started pounding on the front door, I had already sent three of the four files to the family chat.
The fourth was still on my screen, and he was shouting at me not to send it.
Three hours earlier, I had been sitting in the middle of my baby shower, opening gifts.
I was twenty-eight weeks pregnant.
The table was covered in pink boxes and tiny cardigans.
My mother-in-law stood behind my chair with one hand on my shoulder.
"Lena has never had so much as a parking ticket," she told the room. "She's the best of us."
Everybody laughed, and my husband squeezed my knee.
"Whatever you need, honey," she said, "this family handles it."
I believed her. That was the last hour I did.
When the final guest had gone, Damon shut the front door and pulled a document envelope out from under the pile of gifts.
"Laney's in trouble."
"What happened?"
"She hit someone with her car Thursday night. They're hurt badly. She panicked and didn't stop."
I put down the cardigan.
"Laney again," I said.
"This isn't the time for blame. We need to deal with it."
He slid two papers across the table.
The first was a confession with my name typed at the top.
It said I was the driver, that I had hit a man on Thursday night, panicked, and driven away.
Every line was already written, and at the bottom was a blank space for my signature.
I pushed it back. "I wasn't driving."
"We know," Damon said, not even pretending. "But you're a better fit than she is."
I thought I had misheard him.
"Laney has a DUI," he said, in the reasonable voice he used on contractors. "If this lands on her, she's finished. You don't have a record. You're pregnant. They'll go easy on you."
"You're her brother," I said. "You don't have a record either. And you're not seven months pregnant. Why aren't you signing?"
He held out a pen.
"Because someone has to take care of you and the baby while this blows over."
I looked at the pen and didn't take it.
He took out the second paper.
I read two lines of it and stopped.
It was a custody agreement. While I was "away," my daughter would live with his parents.
If I gave birth in custody, they would take her from the hospital.
Someone had stuck a yellow tab where I was meant to sign.
"It's what's best for her," Damon said. "When you're out, we'll bring her home."
The baby rolled under my ribs, and I put my hand over the spot.
"When did you all decide this?"
"That's not important."
"Who came up with it?"
"There's no point in going into that."
"And you agreed to it."
He said nothing.
I had heard the same speech all through my marriage.
When Laney got drunk and wrecked a wedding, family helps each other. When she left a bill, family doesn't keep score.
I had paid for her, covered for her and apologized for her, and they called me sensible.
Now somebody had to be sacrificed, and I was the cheapest person in the room.
"Does 'protect the family' include me?" I asked.
He looked at the table.
"Does it include the baby?"
He still said nothing, and that was the answer.
I took out my phone.
On Friday morning I had found a voicemail from Laney, left at two in the morning.
She had dialed my number by mistake, drunk and crying.
I had saved it.
I had also pulled the footage from the garage camera that his father had installed.
I told myself I only wanted to be sure of something. Now I knew why I had kept them.
I photographed both papers, page by page.
Damon's tone changed. "Who are you sending those to?"
"Everyone who knew. And everyone who didn't, the ones who say what a respectable family you are."
I opened the family chat. Thirty-one people were in it.
He lunged for the phone, and I got there first.
I sent the confession, then the custody agreement, then the garage footage, where Laney climbs into my silver Honda and drives out under the light.
The chat went quiet for a moment. Then it exploded.
Someone wrote, "What is this?"
Someone else wrote, "Why is Lena's name on these?"
Then: "Who was really driving?"
A cousin typed, "Why is it always her?" His aunt, my mother-in-law, removed him from the group in the next breath.
Damon's smile was gone. "Unsend it. Now."
"No."
I tore both papers in half, and in half again, and let the pieces fall.
"Get out of my house," I said.
"You're going to destroy this family."
"You started this."
I pulled the front door open, and he walked out.
On the step he turned and looked back at me.
There was no guilt in his face. There was only hate.
I shut the door. The chat was still scrolling, the whole family demanding to know who had been behind the wheel.
That was when he started pounding.
"Don't send the voicemail! Lena, don't!"
I looked at the last file on my screen.
Then I pressed send.
Laney's slurred voice came out of every phone in the family at once, saying she hadn't even seen the person, and she was too scared to stop.
There was no taking that back.
The doorbell rang at seven the next morning.
My mother-in-law, Judith, stood on my porch with my father-in-law, Donald.
Judith's eyes were red and her tissue was damp.
She walked past me and sat down on my sofa without being asked.
"The police traced the plates on the car that hit that man, honey," she said, and her voice shook. "It's your Honda."
"I know whose car it is. I watched her drive it."
"A detective will be here at ten," Donald said.
Judith dabbed her eyes.
"Laney went to the station at midnight with our lawyer," she said. "She told them you were the one driving."
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