“He’s been moving around a lot,” Ryan said.
It was both comforting and horrifying to see Greg’s movements reduced to a blinking dot.
“But what if we find him,” I said carefully, “and he just says something vague and runs away again?”
Ryan smiled—calm, almost eerie in its confidence.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ve already taken precautions.”
“What did you just say?” I asked, staring at him.
“When you were in the hospital,” he said, “I talked to some people. I went to Dad’s old office and asked questions. Grown-ups answer kids more than they answer other grown-ups, you know.” He gave a tiny shrug. “I found out about the woman, and where she’s from, and some other things.”
To my astonishment, Ryan had acted independently while I was barely hanging on, and had already achieved something unbelievable.
He had even caught wind of Greg’s mistress—her name, where her parents lived, how she and Greg had left the company together.
Understanding Ryan’s words piece by piece, I was simply amazed.
I can’t believe such a smart child came from me, I thought. Or from Greg.
“All right,” I said at last, feeling a surprising steadiness take root in my chest. “Let’s teach Dad, who betrayed us, a lesson.”
“Okay,” Ryan said, his eyes bright with a fierce, focused light. “Let’s start the plan right away.”
Together, my son and I sat at our small dining table with printer paper and a pen, mapping out how to bring Greg back into the range of consequences.
With Ryan by my side, I thought, I’m invincible. Bring it on, anywhere, anytime.
Three days later, my phone rang.
I was folding laundry on the sagging couch, a rerun of some home makeover show playing on mute, when Greg’s name lit up my screen.
For a heartbeat, my stomach clenched like it always had when he called. Then I remembered the twenty thousand dollars, the van, the hospital.
I answered.
“Hello?” I said.
“Ah, it’s me,” a panicked voice blurted. “Please, I need your help.”
He didn’t sound calm now. He sounded like someone cornered.
“Oh?” I said mildly. “Who might this be?”
“Don’t play dumb,” he snapped. “It’s your husband, obviously. I’m being questioned by the police about you. At this rate, they might ask me to come to the station voluntarily. Help me out.”
“Oh, is that so?” I said, keeping my voice even. “Just wait a moment, then.”
I hung up.
“It’s time,” I told Ryan.
He nodded, already grabbing his jacket and his small backpack where he kept his phone and a power bank.
We got in my aging sedan and followed the GPS coordinates on Ryan’s screen.
To my surprise, the blue dot stopped moving at a forest park near our house—a state park with camping grounds that we had once talked about visiting together as a family in that very camper van.
The entrance sign flashed past as we drove in, the American and state flags flapping on tall poles by the ranger station.
We followed the winding road through tall pines and scattered RVs until we saw it: our white camper van parked in a gravel spot, its side door open, a camp chair unfolded beside it.
Several yards away, two police officers stood near Greg, who looked rumpled and confused, motioning with their hands as they asked him questions.
Seeing him like that, I expected to feel pity.
All I felt was tired.
I parked a little way off. Ryan and I stepped out, the cool air smelling of smoke from someone’s campfire and damp earth.
I walked up to the officers.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m Hannah. That camper van is registered in my name. I’m the one who reported it stolen.”
They turned to me, their expressions shifting as they put the pieces together.
After a brief conversation, I asked politely if they could give us a few minutes to talk as a family. They agreed to hang back, but not leave entirely.
Greg, clearly uncomfortable being watched, quickly ushered Ryan and me into the camper van.
Inside, the air smelled like cheap body spray and takeout. The small table was cluttered with fast-food bags and an open bag of chips. Clothes spilled from a duffel in the corner.
On the bench seat, a woman in ripped jeans and a cropped hoodie sat cross-legged, scrolling on her phone. She looked up as we entered and gave us a once-over, her mouth curling.
“So this is the ex,” she said.
“Sorry about that,” Greg muttered, ignoring her and rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks for coming. But why did the police suddenly show up at my campsite? I don’t get it.”
“That’s because I filed a report about the missing camper van,” I said.
“What?” he shouted. “Why would you do that?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I replied. “My car was stolen.”
Greg scoffed.
“You can’t steal from your own wife,” he said. “It’s community property. We’re married.”
“The world isn’t that naive, you know,” I said coolly. “You filed for divorce, remember? Or did you forget? You took the forms from the drawer. You left the house. You emptied the account. As far as the law is concerned, you’re just a guy driving a vehicle that doesn’t belong to him.”
I nodded toward the open door, where the officers were still visible.
“Ryan figured all this out,” I added.
Ryan sat beside me, his expression steady.
“But I didn’t steal the car,” Greg protested, his voice cracking. “I just borrowed it for a bit.”
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