Chapter 6 - TUESDAYS
Leo hated Tuesdays.
That fact emerged slowly.
Not from the police.
Not from Nora.
From his teacher.
Mrs. Elaine Patterson had been teaching third grade for seventeen years, long enough to know that children often revealed their lives through routines rather than confessions.
Leo had been absent or late eleven Tuesdays since September.
On Wednesdays, he often fell asleep during silent reading.
Mrs. Patterson had called home.
Greg answered.
He said Leo suffered from migraines.
He said the family doctor was aware.
He said Nora worked nights and should not be disturbed.
When Mrs. Patterson insisted on speaking to Nora, Greg provided another number.
No one answered.
Eventually the school counselor sent letters.
Those letters ended up in the locked box.
"What happened on Tuesdays?" Nora asked Leo.
It was Saturday afternoon.
They had moved from the emergency department to a small pediatric observation room.
The swelling in Leo's face was already beginning to decrease.
Evan checked on him whenever his shift allowed.
He never stayed long.
He didn't want Leo to feel watched.
Melissa sat near the window.
Nora had learned to ask questions without demanding answers.
"What happened on Tuesdays?" she repeated.
Leo stared at a cartoon playing silently on the television.
"Greg had meetings."
"What kind?"
"I don't know."
"Where?"
"The garage."
"At home?"
Leo nodded.
"Who came?"
"People."
"What people?"
"Men."
Nora felt Melissa watching her.
"What did Greg do with you?"
Leo tugged at his sleeve.
"He said kids hear things."
Nora's throat tightened.
"So he put you in the shed?"
"Sometimes."
"Every Tuesday?"
Leo shook his head.
"Sometimes the laundry room."
Their house had a narrow laundry room off the garage.
No exterior window.
A door with a lock Greg had installed after claiming tools were disappearing.
Nora remembered asking why a laundry room needed a deadbolt.
Greg had laughed.
Because your son thinks detergent is a science experiment.
She had accepted it.
Another ordinary lie.
"What did the men talk about?" Melissa asked.
Nora shot her a warning glance.
Leo answered anyway.
"Houses."
"What about houses?"
"Who needed roofs. Who needed windows."
Greg ran a small residential repair crew.
That sounded normal.
Then Leo added:
"And old people."
Nora frowned.
"What old people?"
"The ones who forgot stuff."
Melissa's eyes narrowed.
"Forgot what?"
"Their checks."
The room went quiet.
Leo seemed confused by their reaction.
"Greg said old people shouldn't have money if they can't remember where they put it."
Nora felt cold.
"What checks?"
"I don't know."
"He ever ask you to touch anything?"
"No."
"Sign anything?"
"No."
"Did he ever bring papers into the house?"
Leo nodded.
"Lots."
Nora remembered Greg complaining that his company bookkeeping was a mess.
He often worked at the kitchen table after midnight.
Stacks of contracts.
Invoices.
Photocopies of driver's licenses.
She had never looked closely.
Greg became defensive when she asked about business.
You wanted me to handle the money. Let me handle it.
Officer Ruiz was informed.
The investigation broadened.
Not because a nine-year-old had overheard the word checks.
Because when detectives contacted two elderly homeowners whose names appeared repeatedly in Greg's business records, both described similar experiences.
Repairs they did not remember authorizing.
Checks written for amounts larger than the quoted work.
One widower said Greg had driven him to the bank.
Another woman insisted she'd signed nothing.
None of it proved a crime yet.
But it explained Tuesdays.
Greg wasn't merely isolating Leo because he was cruel.
He needed the child unable to see or hear what happened in that house.
And Leo had seen more than Greg realized.
Late Saturday evening, Nora sat beside the hospital bed while Leo slept.
Melissa had gone home to bring clothes.
The room was dim.
Nora looked at her son's face and tried to calculate how many Tuesdays she had worked.
How many nights she came home and found Leo already sleeping.
How many mornings Greg had said:
He was difficult yesterday.
He lied again.
He needs discipline.
You can't keep babying him.
She remembered thanking Greg.
Thanking him.
The thought nearly made her sick.
Leo stirred.
"Mom?"
"I'm here."
"Did Greg go home?"
"No."
"Is he mad?"
"Probably."
Leo went silent.
Then:
"He's going to say I stole it."
"The key?"
Leo nodded.
"Did you?"
"I took it from his jacket."
Nora considered the question carefully.
"Why?"
Leo's eyes opened.
"Because I wanted my box."
"You said you didn't know what was in it."
"I know one thing."
Nora leaned closer.
"What?"
Leo's voice became almost inaudible.
"There's a birthday card."
Nora stared.
"From who?"
"Grandma Harris."
Aaron's mother.
Nora had believed that relationship faded naturally after Aaron's death.
Birthday calls became fewer.
Christmas packages stopped arriving.
Greg said Aaron's mother blamed Nora for remarrying.
Nora had been hurt.
Proud.
She stopped calling too.
"How do you know?"
"I saw Greg put it in."
"Why didn't he give it to you?"
Leo's face hardened in a way no child's face should.
"He said dead families should stay dead."
Nora closed her eyes.
For two years, Greg had not simply controlled the present.
He had been erasing Leo's past.
One relationship at a time.
Then Leo whispered:
"There's something else in there."
Nora opened her eyes.
"What?"
"A picture."
"Of what?"
Leo looked directly at her.
"Greg and Dad."
Not standing near each other in the background of some harbor photograph.
Together.
May you like
Smiling.
Years before Greg claimed they had ever met.
