Not together, exactly. They left in the same car but with the particular silence that suggests blame has already changed addresses inside a marriage. My father had not once raised his voice. I had. More than once. My mother had cried until her eyes swelled. Claire had tried tears once, then indignation, then a brittle apology to no one in particular. Daniel had moved through stages—confidence, irritation, sarcasm, appeal to family, appeal to practicality, outrage, legal confusion, panic, and finally a kind of stunned resentment that seemed to say he still could not understand why everyone was reacting as though he had done something unforgivable.
That, perhaps, was the most chilling part. Not his greed. His normalcy inside it.
After the officers left, the three of us sat in the living room while the sea turned silver-blue beyond the windows and the house slowly exhaled from violation into stunned quiet.
My father still held the returned keys in his hand.
My mother had stopped crying, but only in the way people stop when their body cannot keep producing tears at the same pace. She looked emptied out.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
The words hit me sideways. “For what?”