He Picked the Wrong Wife to Sacrifice for His Sister novel · Chapter 2 of 24

Chapter 2: Ten O'Clock

Lena hands the detective the voicemail and footage in her own living room, then is told to leave her home. A text names the man Laney hit and says the family's check arrives at four.

The detective arrived at ten sharp and took the armchair across from me.

She was a woman in her fifties with a legal pad and a tired face, and she did not take the coffee Judith offered.

Donald stood by the window. Judith sat on the sofa with her tissue.

The family lawyer sat beside me, uninvited, with his briefcase on his knees.

"Mrs. Carraway," the detective said, "your sister-in-law came in last night and said you were driving your car on Thursday."

"I wasn't."

"She was very clear."

"She was drunk when she left me a voicemail about it, too," I said. "She was very clear then."

The lawyer cleared his throat. "My client's sister-in-law has been under a lot of stress."

"Your client is Laney," I said. "You aren't mine."

I took out my phone and set it on the coffee table between us.

"This is a voicemail she left me at two in the morning on Friday. And this is video from the garage camera. She takes my car at eight-twelve. She brings it back at nine-forty."

The detective picked up the phone and played the voicemail all the way through.

Laney's voice filled the room, slurred and sobbing. I didn't even see the person. I was too scared to stop.

Judith made a small sound and pressed the tissue to her mouth.

The detective played the footage next, and she watched the whole thing.

"You kept these since Friday," she said.

"I didn't know what to do with them."

"And last night you sent them to thirty people."

"I sent them to the family that wanted me to sign a confession."

I slid the two torn halves of the paper out of my purse. I had picked them up off the floor at five in the morning.

"My husband wrote this. He put a pen in my hand and said I was a better fit."

The lawyer leaned in. "Mrs. Carraway is eight months pregnant and emotional, detective. I don't think we should rely on anything she says tonight."

"It's morning," I said. "And I'm seven months."

The detective almost smiled. Then she wrote something down.

"Where were you Thursday evening, between eight and nine?"

"Here."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"My husband."

The word sat in the room.

Judith's tissue stopped moving. Donald turned from the window.

I had just named the one person who had written me a confession as my alibi.

"Is your husband here?" the detective asked.

"No."

"Then we'll talk to him." She stood and tucked the pad under her arm. "We'll be taking the car. It's evidence either way."

"It's in the garage."

"We know."

She said it flatly. Judith watched her go with wet, hopeful eyes.

When the front door closed, the lawyer put a hand on my shoulder.

"You've been very brave, dear. Now let's fix this."

I moved out from under his hand.

Damon came through the door a minute later. He had been waiting on the porch.

He was in yesterday's shirt, and he hadn't shaved. He looked at his mother, then at me, and spoke in the reasonable voice.

"Lena, this house belongs to Carraway Realty. You know that."

"I live here."

"Until you've calmed down, I think you should go somewhere else. Dad has a hotel suite for you."

Donald did not look at either of us.

"A suite your father pays for," I said, "so your lawyer can find me when he needs me."

"You're upset. You're not thinking about the baby."

"I'm thinking about nothing else."

I walked into the bedroom and packed.

Judith followed me and stood in the doorway to watch. She said nothing for a long while.

I took my prenatal vitamins and my laptop. I took the quilt my grandmother had made for the crib, the one with the yellow border.

I took the folder with my birth certificate, my passport and the deed to my grandmother's house.

"You'll need that quilt," Judith said at last. "The nursery's already so warm."

"The nursery's mine."

"Honey," she said softly, "everything in this house is a gift from us."

She meant it kindly. That was the worst part.

I carried my bag down the front steps myself.

Damon did not try to stop me. The detective's tow truck was already backing up to the garage, and he stood watching it with his jaw tight.

I stopped at the bottom of the driveway with one bag, one quilt and no car.

My phone buzzed.

It was a message from a number I didn't know.

"It's Aunt Judith's nephew, the one she kicked out of the chat. I don't think anybody has told the man Laney hit anything. He's at St. Joseph's, room 412. Their lawyer is bringing him a check at four. His name is Quinn Redmond."

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