Chapter 7
The drive back to the suburbs was consumed by a heavy, suffocating silence. The afternoon sun beat down mercilessly through the windshield of the sedan, casting a warm, deceptive glow over the endless rows of identical suburban homes. Julian kept both hands glued to the steering wheel, his knuckles white, his eyes fixed on the asphalt ribbon unwinding before them. Clara stared out the passenger window, watching the blur of strip malls and gas stations slip past, her mind racing through the logistics of Reno, Nevada, and an uncle who was little more than a phantom in a criminal record.
"We aren't going to Reno," Clara said quietly, breaking the silence as they pulled into their driveway and cut the engine.
Julian turned his head sharply, cutting the ignition. "He’s the only one who can sign the affidavit, Clara. Marcus made that crystal clear. If Arthur doesn't take ownership of the fraud, the bank will freeze our accounts within thirty days. That means no mortgage payments, no utility checks, and hospital bills we can't pay."
"You are not getting on a plane to Nevada at eight months pregnant with me sitting at home waiting for a phone call," Clara retorted, turning in her seat to face him, her expression fierce and unyielding. "And you certainly aren't driving twelve hours straight when you haven't slept more than three hours a night since this started. We are a team, Julian. That was the rule we agreed on in the kitchen this morning."
"Then what do you propose we do?" Julian’s voice rose slightly, the frustration cracking his composure. "Sit here and wait for the sheriff to nail a notice to our front door? Let them take the crib? Let them take the room we painted together?"
Clara reached out, placing her hand firmly over his clenched fist on the gear shift. Her touch forced him to stop, to breathe, to look at her instead of the abstract disaster looming on the horizon. "We call his parole officer. We arrange a video deposition. Or we pay a local process server in Reno to track him down and get it notarized remotely. We use technology, Julian. We don't throw ourselves into the fire like martyrs."
Julian stared at her for a long, quiet moment, the resistance slowly melting out of his shoulders. He let out a long breath, dropping his forehead against the top of the steering wheel with a soft thud. "I’m just so tired of being tied to them," he muttered, his voice muffled by the leather cover. "My whole life, I’ve tried to build something clean, something that didn't smell like bankruptcy court and family prison visits. And it turns out I was walking on glass the entire time."
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"I know," Clara whispered, her thumb stroking the back of his hand. "But the past only has as much power as we give it today. Let's go inside. We have calls to make."
***
