“I tried,” Noah whispered. “She stands next to me when you call. She said if I told you… you might have an accident. Like Mom.”
Michael closed his eyes. For a split second he saw the crash again — the twisted metal, the rain.
When he opened them, his expression had changed.
He photographed every injury carefully. Different angles. Clear lighting. Dates. He documented everything with a precision that once belonged only to business contracts. Noah stood still, cooperating quietly, as if he had grown years older in a single season.
Lauren appeared in the doorway, arms folded.
“You can’t do this,” she said sharply. “I’m his mother now.”
“You’re my wife,” Michael corrected calmly. “And you’ll remain here until the police arrive.”
“You’re calling the police? Over this?” she scoffed. “You’re ruining our family.”
“The moment you burned my son,” he replied, his voice steady and cold, “there was no family left to ruin.”
He made the calls — his attorney, Noah’s pediatrician, emergency services.
In the kitchen, he noticed details he had overlooked before: imported wines, gourmet cheeses — and little else. In the pantry, expired cereal boxes and empty shelves.