Their downstairs guest room sat beyond Lauren’s home office, near the laundry room and the side entry from the driveway. Marcus had helped renovate it himself after they bought the house. He had installed the crown molding, painted the walls, replaced the cheap builder-grade closet door.
His mother stayed there after knee surgery. Lauren’s sister used it during holidays. Caleb sometimes built blanket forts on the carpet. Now it had another history. “When was the last time?” Marcus asked.
Lauren did not answer quickly enough. He looked at the jacket. “Yesterday?” Her face told him yes before her mouth did. “Yesterday,” she whispered.
Marcus turned away.
He had worked from seven in the morning until nearly four supervising replacement of an electrical transfer switch at an outpatient surgery center. Lauren had texted him at noon asking whether he wanted chicken or salmon for dinner. At one-thirty she sent a photo of Caleb in the backyard with sidewalk chalk. At three-fifteen she wrote, Drive safe. We miss you.
Trevor’s jacket had been downstairs while those messages arrived. Marcus felt suddenly sick. “What did Caleb see?” Lauren froze.
He looked at her again. “You heard me. He knows Trevor comes on Saturdays.
He knows the jacket. He knows the cologne. What has our son seen?”
“Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing sexual. I would never—” “Do not tell me what you would never do.” She flinched.
Marcus breathed through his nose and tried again. “What has he seen?”
Lauren sat slowly. “Trevor coming in. Sometimes we worked first. Sometimes Caleb was playing upstairs or in the family room. He thought Trevor was a work friend because that’s what I told him.”