Page 81 of Bedtime Stories
Chapter
Thirty-One
KEANE
Something’s wrong with him tonight.
He’s quieter than usual, twitchy in that way I recognize now—shoulders tense, eyes darting as if he’s waiting for something to drop out of the sky and hit him. He picks at his food instead of eating it, then pushes the plate away half-finished. The moment his phone buzzes, even though it’s just a calendar reminder, he flinches as if it’s a bullet.
I try conversation, but his answers are clipped. I try touch, but he stiffens, then melts for a heartbeat before pulling away. And it guts me. Because I know what this is. It’s the waiting. The dread of the next ding, the next number, the next shadow on the sidewalk. Vince has turned his nervous system into a live wire, and I can’t watch it hum like this anymore.
He doesn’t even notice when I set my fork down. Doesn’t see the way I study him across the table. He’s so wrapped up in the storm inside his head that it takes him a second to realize I’ve gone still.
“What?” he asks finally, eyes flicking up. His voice is too light, too practiced.
“You’re not okay,” I tell him. No point in pretending otherwise.
He shrugs as if he can brush it off.
“I’m fine. Just—waiting. He’ll try something. He always does.” His fork tinks against the plate as he fidgets with it. “I hate not knowing when. My stomach hurts from the anxiety.”
And there it is—the confession. The crack I was waiting for.
I take a breath, steadying myself. Because if I let him keep bracing for the next blow without knowing what I know, I’m complicit in his torment. I wanted to wait, to line up every duck and make it neat before showing him. But neat won’t help him sleep tonight. Truth might.
I wait until after dinner, when he’s rinsing plates, before I spill. Timing matters. Dropping “Your ex may have ruined your credit and committed financial crimes in your name” doesn’t belong with dessert.
“Oren,” I say gently, leaning against the counter.
He looks up, water dripping from his hands.
“Yeah, Daddy?”
My throat tightens. God, I hate what I’m about to do to his face.
“I need to talk to you about Vince. About something I found while going through his paperwork.”
His humming cuts off. The air goes still.
“What… kind of paperwork?”
I nod toward the folder I set on the table.
“Loan applications. Financial statements. The ones he submitted when he tried to get into the club. They didn’t add up, so I dug deeper.”
Oren dries his hands slowly, suspicion already clouding his expression.
“And?”
I draw a breath. “I think Vince took out several loans in your name. Personal loans. He listed himself as the beneficiary.”
The words land like a blow. He blinks at me, once, twice, then gives a little shake of his head as if that’ll make it untrue.
“No. No, I—I would’ve known. I would’ve?—”
“You couldn’t have known,” I interrupt, keeping my tone even. “He had access to your information. He used it. Everything matches—the signatures, the accounts, the timing. It’s fraud, Oren. It’s identity theft.”
He presses his hands flat on the counter, knuckles whitening.
