Chapter 2 - The Message Jordan Wouldn't ShowDinner passed beneath a silence so heavy that even the scrape of forks sounded aggressive.
Marcus sat at one end of the table. Rachel sat beside him. Jordan faced them, barely touching his chicken.
His phone remained upstairs.
That was Marcus's rule during family meals, but tonight Jordan had surrendered it too quickly.
Marcus noticed.
Normally Jordan complained.
Tonight he seemed relieved to have the device out of reach.
Rachel attempted first.
“Your father and I aren't trying to punish you forever.”
Jordan stared at his plate.
“Could've fooled me.”
Marcus put down his fork.
“The car isn't the point.”
“I know. Trust.”
The bitterness in Jordan's tone sharpened the word.
“Yes,” Marcus replied. “Trust.”
Jordan leaned back.
“I apologized.”
“An apology isn't a reset button.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Rachel lifted a hand.
“Both of you.”
Marcus stopped.
Rachel looked at Jordan.
“We helped you because you told us you wanted to quit. If that's changed, say so. If you're struggling, say so. We can deal with a struggle. We can't help with a lie we don't know exists.”
For one second, Jordan looked as though he might say something important.
Then his face closed.
“I slipped. That's it.”
Marcus watched him.
The torn paper from Westbridge Storage Center sat folded inside Marcus's pocket.
He had not mentioned it yet.
“Where did you get the cigarette?”
Jordan shrugged.
“School.”
“From who?”
“Somebody.”
“Name?”
“Dad.”
“That's a reasonable question.”
“I don't know. Some guy had a pack.”
Marcus narrowed his eyes.
Jordan was a terrible liar when he improvised.
His sentences grew vague.
Somebody.
Some guy.
Somewhere.
“Were you smoking alone?”
“Yes.”
Rachel glanced at Marcus.
He saw that she heard it too.
The hesitation before the answer.
Marcus could have confronted him about the storage receipt.
Instead, he waited.
After dinner Jordan carried his plate to the sink.
“I'm going upstairs.”
Marcus nodded.
Jordan disappeared.
Rachel waited until they heard the bedroom door.
“He's hiding something.”
Marcus took the paper fragment from his pocket.
“I found this outside.”
Rachel read it.
“Westbridge?”
“You know it?”
“Storage place near the industrial park.”
Marcus did know it.
His younger brother Adrian once rented a unit there while renovating an apartment.
That had been years ago.
Rachel looked at Marcus.
“You're thinking what I'm thinking.”
“I don't know what I'm thinking yet.”
“Adrian?”
Marcus hated how quickly the name made sense.
Adrian was thirty-nine, charming when he wanted to be, impulsive when charm stopped working. He and Marcus jointly managed two pieces of property left by their mother: a small duplex on Hawthorne Street and an older commercial garage that they leased to a mechanic.
Their relationship had never been easy.
But Adrian loved Jordan.
At least Marcus believed he did.
“Could be nothing,” Marcus said.
Rachel handed back the paper.
“Then ask Jordan.”
“I will.”
Marcus went upstairs twenty minutes later.
Jordan's door was open.
His son was at his desk pretending to study algebra.
Marcus leaned against the frame.
“Can we talk?”
Jordan didn't turn around.
“We already did.”
Marcus entered.
“What's Westbridge Storage Center?”
Jordan's pencil stopped.
It was only a fraction of a second.
Enough.
Marcus held out the torn paper.
“I found this by the ashtray.”
Jordan turned.
“I don't know.”
“Really?”
“Probably trash.”
“It came out of your pocket.”
“You don't know that.”
“I saw you shove something in there when I opened the door.”
Jordan's breathing quickened.
Marcus stayed calm.
“I'm not searching your room. I'm not grabbing your phone. I'm asking you directly.”
“I don't know anything about it.”
Marcus felt disappointment settle deeper.
“Jordan.”
“I said I don't know.”
The boy looked him straight in the eye.
That was worse.
Marcus nodded slowly.
“All right.”
He walked out.
Jordan waited until the footsteps faded.
Then he retrieved his phone from the drawer where he had hidden it after dinner.
Seven messages waited.
All from Adrian.
You didn't tell him anything, right?
Jordan?
Call me.
Don't let him scare you.
Then:
Remember, you took the money too.
Jordan's throat tightened.
He typed:
He found part of the storage receipt.
The reply came instantly.
Then destroy the rest.
Jordan looked toward his bedroom door.
Inside the bottom of his backpack was a sealed manila envelope Adrian had told him never to open.
Jordan had been carrying it for three days.
He reached inside.
For the first time, he considered opening it.
Downstairs, Marcus stood at the kitchen island studying the family's shared vehicle app.
The Honda Civic's recent mileage history was displayed on the screen.
Marcus frowned.
There were trips he didn't recognize.
Tuesday afternoon.
Thursday afternoon.
The previous Saturday.
All during hours when Jordan had claimed to be at the library, basketball practice or a friend's house.
Rachel came beside him.
“What is it?”
Marcus enlarged the map history.
Three destinations appeared.
One was Westbridge Storage Center.
Another was the Hawthorne duplex.
The third made Marcus's expression change completely.
It was his bank.
Jordan hadn't merely been smoking behind his house.
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His son had been driving somewhere he had never admitted going.
And every unexplained trip connected back to Marcus's brother.
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