Page 71 of I Will Ruin You

The Audi kicked up dirt and gravel as it backed quickly out of the driveway. Once on the street, the car sped off in the direction it had come from.

Everything went very quiet.

I didn’t move. The bat hung at my side from my right hand. My phone was still recording. I took it from my pocket, hit the stop button, and deleted the recording.

Things had become a little more complicated.

I’d come here to confront Billy, but someone had beaten me to the punch. The smartest thing would be for me to abort. Take my bat, get in the car, and go home.

And yet.

An overwhelming sense of curiosity had taken hold. No longer was I here to take a stand. I wanted to know what had happened in that garage.

I brought up the bat, holding it crossways in front of me, right hand at the base, the wide end to my left. I cut across grass, wanting to make less noise than I would walking down the gravel driveway. When I got to the door, I rapped on it lightly.

No response.

I tried the handle and, just as those two visitors before me had, found it unlocked.

I opened the door, let it swing wide.

The lights were on.

I went inside.

Thirty-Three

Mrs. Tibaldi came to the door within ten seconds of Bonnie ringing the bell.

Even before saying hello, she turned and shouted over her shoulder, “Rachel! Your mother is here!” Then she turned to Bonnie and said, “Hi.”

“I’m so sorry,” Bonnie said. “I had no idea Richard was going to do this.”

“It’s fine,” Mrs. Tibaldi said. “Rachel’s never any trouble.”

Rachel came running to the door, shouting, “Can I watch the rest of How to Train—”

“Get in the car,” Bonnie said.

“I’d only seen half of it when Daddy brought me—”

“Get in the car.”

Rachel knew the tone and said no more. She scooted around her mother and ran to the Mitsubishi crossover. Bonnie followed without saying another word. Mrs. Tibaldi, evidently expecting some token thank-you or nod of appreciation, looked taken aback.

“Good night!” she called out.

Bonnie, her back to the woman, waved a hand in the air and got into her car. Rachel was already in the back, seat belt buckled.

“Are you mad at me?” Rachel asked as Bonnie backed the car onto the street.

“I’m not mad at you,” she said, the car now heading in the direction of home.

“You seem mad.”

“I’m not mad,” she said.

“Are you mad at Dad?”