Abonneer je op Cheating Tales Lab. Laten we beginnen.
Walter Morton reed door de aprilregen, zijn huurauto baande zich een weg door de plassen op de snelweg. Het manuscript over een waargebeurd misdrijf waar hij in Portland onderzoek naar had gedaan, was drie dagen eerder klaar dan gepland, dankzij een getuige die eindelijk zijn stilte verbrak over een onopgeloste zaak uit 1987.
Hij had van tevoren naar het hotel gebeld om de rest van zijn reservering te annuleren, omdat hij graag naar huis wilde, naar Chicago. Thuis betekende zijn dochter Emma, acht jaar oud, met het donkere haar van haar moeder en zijn koppige kin. Thuis betekende zijn vrouw Diane, hoewel dat woord de laatste tijd zwaarder voelde dan het zou moeten.
Thuis betekende voor mij een huis binnenstappen waar de lucht altijd een beetje gespannen aanvoelde, alsof er elk moment een storm kon losbreken.
Walter was zeven jaar openbaar aanklager geweest voordat hij de politieke spelletjes en de schikkingen waardoor schuldigen vrijuit gingen, zat was. Hij begon te schrijven over de zaken die hem bleven achtervolgen, de zaken waarin gerechtigheid door de vingers van de bureaucratie was geglipt. Zijn derde boek haalde de bestsellerlijst. Met zijn vierde boek was hij te gast geweest in een paar ochtendprogramma’s op televisie.
Zijn vijfde boek – waar hij net het onderzoek voor had afgerond – ging over een vrouw die haar bejaarde moeder had vermoord voor de erfenis en er bijna mee weg was gekomen.
The irony wasn’t lost on him.
He’d met Diane ten years ago at a fundraiser for the Cook County Public Defender Office. She was a social worker then, passionate about family services, quick to laugh. Her mother, Violet, had been there too—dripping in jewelry that probably cost more than Walter’s annual salary, watching her daughter with the intensity of a hawk tracking a field mouse.
Even then, Walter had sensed something off: the way Violet touched Diane’s arm to correct her posture, how she interrupted her daughter mid-sentence to clarify what Diane really meant.
But Diane had been worth it.
They’d married within a year. Emma arrived eighteen months later. Violet arrived right after, moving from her Gold Coast penthouse to a sprawling house in Oak Park, fifteen minutes from their modest three-bedroom ranch in Forest Park.
“To be closer to my granddaughter,” she’d said, smiling that smile that never quite reached her eyes.
Walter pulled into O’Hare’s rental return lot and checked his phone. Seven missed calls from Diane, all from this afternoon.
His stomach tightened.
He called back.
“Where are you?” Diane’s voice was strained.
“Just landed. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Mom’s birthday party is tonight. Remember?”
Walter did the mental calculation.
Saturday night. Violet’s 60th birthday.
Finished early.
“I’ll head straight there,” he said.
“Walter.” Diane hesitated. “Maybe just come home instead. You’re probably exhausted.”
“It’s your mother’s birthday. I should be there.” He kept his voice neutral, but he’d spent years reading witnesses in cross-examination.
Diane didn’t want him there.
“Where’s Emma?”
“With Mom. She wanted to help set up.”
That familiar tightness returned to his chest. Emma at Violet’s house helping. He’d seen what that meant before. His daughter relegated to some corner, given tasks that would keep her quiet and invisible while Violet held court.
“I’ll be there in 40 minutes,” Walter said.
The drive from O’Hare to Oak Park took him through neighborhoods that shifted from working-class to wealthy with the subtle inevitability of a rising tide.
Violet’s house sat on a corner lot, a brick colonial that had been featured in Architectural Digest the year after she bought it. Every room was perfect—museum quality—untouched by anything as messy as actual living.
Cars lined both sides of the street. Walter counted at least twenty before he gave up. He parked three blocks away and walked back through the rain, his overnight bag slung over his shoulder.
Through the tall windows, he could see the party in full swing. The first floor blazed with light, figures moving through the dining room and living room like actors on a stage.
He recognized Violet’s sister May, her brother Glenn, various cousins, and friends from the country club. The kind of people who summered in Michigan and wintered in Scottsdale, who spoke in careful voices about property values and foundation boards.
Walter had grown up in Cicero, the son of a union electrician and a nurse. His father had died when Walter was fifteen, leaving his mother to work double shifts to keep their house. He’d paid for college with scholarships and student loans he’d only finished paying off three years ago.
These people—Violet’s people—had always treated him like he was tracking mud through their lives.
He’d tolerated it for Diane, for Emma.
But tolerance was getting harder.
He thought back to Emma’s seventh birthday six months ago. They’d had a small party at their house— a dozen kids from her school, pizza, a cake Diane had made herself in the shape of a butterfly. Emma had been radiant, gap-toothed, and giggling as she opened presents.
Violet had arrived late, carrying a box wrapped in paper that probably cost more than everything else combined. Inside was a porcelain doll in a glass case, the kind meant for display, not play.
“This is what proper young ladies appreciate,” Violet had said loud enough for the other parents to hear. “Not all these plastic toys.”
Emma had thanked her grandmother politely, the light in her eyes dimming just slightly.
The doll now sat on a shelf in Emma’s room, still in its case.
Never touched.
