“We’ll figure it out.”
He looked at the bills, then at me. “We’ll figure it out.”
He sounded like a man trying to keep a wall up with his bare hands. A week later, I made a decision.
I told my oldest son, who was home from college for the weekend, “I’m stepping out if your dad leaves again. Stay awake enough to listen for Grandma’s monitor.”
He looked at me carefully. “You think something’s wrong?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to come?”
At 2:07 a.m., Mark got up.
Same slow steps. Same quiet exit. This time I counted to 60, slipped out the back, got in my car, and followed him.
My hands were shaking on the wheel. Because by then I knew one thing for sure. This was not sleepwalking.
He drove with purpose. Three towns over. Through an industrial strip I had never had reason to visit.
Then he pulled into a warehouse lot. I sat across the street and stared. Not a motel.
Not a woman’s house. Not a casino. Not a bar.
A warehouse. Loading docks. Bright floodlights.
Delivery trucks.
