Page 35 of I Will Ruin You

“I don’t think so. They talked to each other too much. People been married, they come in and look at their phones.”

Marta’s eyes scanned upward toward the ceiling. “You got cameras?” she asked.

Sixteen

Richard

Bonnie would have found out about the LeDrews’ intention to sue me soon enough. One of her colleagues would probably text to offer sympathies, or she’d spot an item about it when she went scrolling through news on her phone. But it turned out to be Rachel who broke the news for Bonnie at the dinner table.

“The Drew people are mean,” she said.

“I’m sorry, what?” Bonnie said, the words coming out garbled as she chewed a bite of pork chop. “What are drew people?”

“The people whose kid tried to blow up Dad’s school,” Rachel said, moving some peas around her plate with her fork.

“The LeDrews, you mean,” Bonnie said. “Why are they mean?”

“Because they want to take Dad’s money.”

Bonnie looked at me. “What’s she talking about?”

“Where’d you hear about this?” I asked Rachel.

“Mrs. Tibaldi saw it on the news.”

Bonnie was still looking at me, awaiting an explanation. “It’s nothing,” I said. “A frivolous lawsuit.”

“That’s why you texted me,” she said, the tumblers falling into place. “Why didn’t you tell me when I got home?”

“Your day wasn’t much better. I figured it could wait. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

I didn’t want to get into it in front of Rachel, who looked more than a little troubled.

“Everything is sad here,” she said, moving a pea around her plate with a fork.

“Sweetheart, what do you mean?” Bonnie asked her.

I should have thought it was obvious.

“Everybody’s mad about everything,” our daughter said. “Everybody’s mad at Dad and trying to blow him up, and you guys are always mad at each other. That’s what I mean. Everybody’s mad.”

“That’s not true,” Bonnie said, a hint of defensiveness in her voice.

Rachel said, “Remember when I fell on my scooter?”

When she was five we got her a Radio Flyer scooter. A skateboard-like platform with a tall handlebar that she could grip onto as she powered herself along the sidewalk, one leg on the base, the other pumping away. She’d no doubt tumbled off it a number of times, but Bonnie and I both knew the incident she was referring to. She was propelling herself on the sidewalk, on our side of the street, when some jackass more intent at looking at his phone than the road wandered across the street and scraped up against the curb only a few feet from Rachel.

It scared her half to death and she let go of the scooter and tumbled onto the hard cement of the sidewalk, scraping her elbow and knee. The jackass kept on going.

“It wasn’t my fault,” Rachel recollected, eyeing her mother, “and you didn’t get mad and you got me chocolate peanut butter ice cream with pretzels.”

Bonnie managed a smile. “I remember.”

“But Daddy almost got blown up and you didn’t get him ice cream or anything.”

Bonnie’s face fell. She eyed me for a second, then looked away guiltily. I instantly felt badly for her. She didn’t deserve that.

Some wineglasses that sat close together on an upper shelf began tinkling as they jiggled against each other. Another truck rumbling past.