Chapter 3 - Ninety-Seven Thousand DollarsColonel Wade arrived forty minutes later with a woman named Claire Holloway.
She protested quietly.
“I can walk.”
“No.”
“Evan—”
“You’re shaking.”
That ended the argument.
My mother stood aside as I passed her.
Paige remained near the kitchen island, wineglass still in her hand.
The interior looked almost unrecognizable.
Granite counters.
New appliances.
Leather furniture.
A seventy-inch television mounted over a stone fireplace.
The last time I had been home, Gwen and I had argued about whether we could afford a $600 dishwasher.
Now the kitchen looked like something from a real-estate magazine.
I looked down at my wife.
Her bare scalp rested against my shoulder.
“How much did this cost?”
My mother’s face tightened.
“Put Gwen down first.”
“Answer me.”
“Not everything has to become an interrogation.”
I laughed once.
There was no humor in it.
Paige quietly put her glass on the counter.
“Maybe we should all calm down.”
“Where is Gwen’s bedroom?”
Another silence.
I turned toward the hallway.
Our old bedroom door stood open.
I walked inside.
And stopped.
The room no longer belonged to us.
A king-size bed sat against the wall.
Men’s clothes were draped over a chair.
A framed photograph showed Paige smiling beside a man I didn’t recognize.
“What is this?”
Paige appeared behind me.
“Derek and I use this room.”
I looked at her.
“You use my bedroom?”
“You were gone.”
“My wife wasn’t.”
Paige’s jaw tightened.
“Gwen moved downstairs.”
I looked at Gwen.
She closed her eyes.
“Where downstairs?”
Nobody answered.
I carried her toward the basement door.
Mom stepped in front of me.
“Evan.”
“Move.”
“You don’t understand what happened while you were away.”
“Then explain it.”
“Gwen became difficult.”
The woman in my arms flinched again.
I stared at my mother.
“Move.”
Perhaps she heard something in my voice.
She stepped aside.
The basement smelled damp.
I descended slowly.
At the bottom was a laundry area, storage shelves, and the furnace.
Then I saw the cot.
A narrow military-style folding cot stood beside the washer.
One thin blanket.
One pillow.
A plastic crate containing folded clothes.
On top of the crate sat our wedding photograph.
I stopped.
Gwen whispered, “Please.”
I lowered her onto the cot.
For the first time since arriving home, I felt close to losing control.
“You sleep here?”
She wiped her cheek.
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
She stared at her hands.
“Almost three years.”
Three years.
My mother called from the stairs.
“She chose to.”
I spun around.
“Stay upstairs.”
“This is my house.”
“No.”
Everyone froze.
I pointed around the basement.
“This was my house. Gwen’s house. I bought it before I deployed.”
Mom’s expression shifted.
“You put my name on the paperwork.”
“For emergencies.”
“You signed documents.”
I stared at her.
“What documents?”
Gwen suddenly grabbed my wrist.
“Evan.”
I looked down.
She was terrified.
Not nervous.
Terrified.
“What?”
Her eyes moved toward the stairs.
My mother remained there.
Watching.
Gwen whispered, “Not here.”
I immediately understood.
I walked up the stairs.
“Everybody out.”
Paige laughed nervously.
“Out where?”
“Outside. Drive somewhere. I don’t care.”
Mom’s mouth hardened.
“You come home after four years and think you can order everyone around?”
“Yes.”
“You have no idea what your wife has done.”
“Then you’ll tell me later.”
Mom stared at me for several seconds.
Finally she grabbed her purse.
Paige followed.
Before leaving, my mother turned back.
“You should ask Gwen why she shaved her head.”
Gwen went rigid downstairs.
Mom gave me a thin smile.
“Ask her who she was trying to manipulate.”
The door closed.
I locked it.
Then I checked every room.
Old habits.
Nobody else inside.
When I returned to the basement, Gwen had pulled the blanket around her shoulders.
I sat beside her.
Neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For how I look.”
My heart broke.
I touched her cheek.
“Look at me.”
She couldn’t.
“Gwen.”
Slowly, she raised her eyes.
“You never have to apologize to me for surviving something.”
Her face collapsed.
She leaned into me and sobbed.
Not loudly.
That made it worse.
It sounded like someone who had learned to cry without being heard.
I held her for a long time.
Eventually she whispered, “Your mother told me you stopped sending money.”
“When?”
“About six months after you left.”
I felt sick.
“I never stopped.”
“I know that now.”
“What did she tell you?”
“That you had gambling debts.”
I almost laughed.
“I don’t gamble.”
“She said you were ashamed.”
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
Gwen looked embarrassed.
“I tried.”
I remembered our calls.
Dropped connections.
Missed messages.
My mother frequently handled scheduling because Gwen supposedly worked evenings.
“Mom told me your calls were monitored,” Gwen continued. “She said financial problems could affect your clearance.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“I know.”
“But you believed her.”
“At first.”
Her voice cracked.
“Then I started getting suspicious.”
“What happened?”
“She took my phone.”
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
“She said you had requested limited contact.”
I stood.
“Gwen—”
“She controlled the internet password. Paige had access to your email because you left recovery information with her.”
I remembered.
Years earlier.
Before deployment.
Convenience.
Trust.
God.
“What else?”
Gwen pulled her sleeves down.
“I tried to leave.”
My eyes went to her wrists.
Her silence answered the question before I asked it.
“Who did that?”
She swallowed.
“Paige grabbed me once.”
“And the other bruises?”
“Some are from work.”
“What work?”
Gwen gave a hollow laugh.
“This.”
She pointed upstairs.
“Cooking. Cleaning. Laundry.”
“For them?”
“For everyone.”
I sat back down.
“Why?”
“Because according to them, the house belonged to your mother. My bank account was empty. My car was sold. My credit cards stopped working.”
I stared at her.
“They trapped you.”
She didn’t answer.
I thought about the woman I married.
Gwen had been stubborn enough to argue with a tow-truck driver for forty minutes over a parking sign.
She wasn’t weak.
So how had they done this?
Then I noticed the medication bottle beside the cot.
I picked it up.
The label had been peeled away.
“What is this?”
Gwen looked frightened.
“Vitamins.”
“These aren’t vitamins.”
She stared.
“How do you know?”
“Because vitamins don’t come in this kind of pharmacy bottle.”
Her breathing changed.
“Your mother gives them to me.”
A cold sensation moved through my chest.
“How long?”
“Almost two years.”
I stared at the bottle.
“What does she say they’re for?”
“Anxiety.”
“Were they prescribed to you?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer terrified me more than everything else.
I put the bottle in my jacket pocket.
“We’re leaving.”
Gwen looked toward the ceiling.
“If we leave, she’ll call the police.”
“Let her.”
“She has paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
Gwen whispered, “Paperwork saying I’m mentally unstable.”
I went still.
“And that she controls your finances.”
The pieces began locking together.
The intercepted money.
The isolation.
The false stories.
The medication.
The house.
“What about your hair?”
She touched her scalp unconsciously.
For a moment she couldn’t speak.
Then she whispered, “Paige cut it.”
My hands curled into fists.
“Why?”
“She said I had lice.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
Gwen looked at me.
And for the first time since I had come home, I saw something besides fear.
Humiliation.
“She wanted to film it.”
My throat tightened.
“Film what?”
“Me begging her to stop.”
I stood so quickly the cot shifted.
Gwen caught my arm.
“Evan.”
I looked at her.
“Please don’t do anything stupid.”
I had spent years learning to keep my anger under control.
That training saved me.
I took a breath.
Then another.
“You’re right.”
“What are you going to do?”
I pulled out my phone.
“Something smart.”
I called the only person in town I trusted completely.
My former commanding officer, retired Colonel Thomas Wade.
He answered on the third ring.
“Coleman?”
“Sir.”
“You home?”
“Yes.”
“Good to hear your voice.”
“I need help.”
His tone changed immediately.
“What kind?”
I looked at Gwen.
“Legal.”
A pause.
Then:
“How bad?”
May you like
I stared at the basement.
“Bad enough that I need you to tell me who the best lawyer in Richmond is.”
