Page 23 of The Last Road Trip

The cruiser pulls up behind Kwemby’s car, lights off but the engine running. Officer Nia Brown—forty-something, compact, with her badge clipped to her belt—kills the ignition with a quick turn of the key. She steps out, adjusting her utility belt, and gives the house a quick once-over. Clover Hill Drive. Our marital home.

The house looks exactly as I left. The front porch light on and the bushes by the front door are in desperate need of trimming. The hanging plant I’ve kept alive for a full year, even through winter, swings gently in the spring breeze.

I stand on the front walk, Kwemby a half-step behind me, while Officer Brown checks her watch, then signs the top of her report sheet with a quick flourish. “12:17 p.m.,” she says, her voice professional but not unfriendly. “Ms. Dallas, you’re listed on the deed as a co-owner of the property, correct?”

I nod. “Yes. We bought it together after we got married.”

“And you’re here today to retrieve personal items that belong solely to you?”

“Yes. A family heirloom. A ring.”

“You have the legal right to enter the property and remove your belongings. Dispatch says there is a pending ‘no contact order’ that has yet to be signed by the judge, so I cannot force your husband out of the home. I’ll accompany you inside, document anything you take, and ensure there are no issues with access or safety. I’m not here to mediate. I’m only here to ensure safety. Got it?”

“Yes, thank you.”

She steps aside, giving me room to approach the door. “Lead the way whenever you’re ready.”

My key feels strange in the lock. It’s the same one I’ve used a million times, but now feels like someone else’s. I swing open the door with Officer Brown and Kwemby right there. Right away I notice the smell of food. Specifically, it’s burnt cheese.

“Someone’s home,” Officer Brown says, her hand already moving to her belt—not to her weapon, but to her radio to keep dispatch updated.

Kwemby places his hand on my shoulder and gently nudges me in a way that tells me he wants to step inside first. I let him. We both know it’s not Coris or Maren in the home because when we left them, they were headed to class.

With Kwemby leading the way, we follow the smell to the kitchen, where a man stands with his back to us, stirring something in a pot on the stove. He’s wearing the apron I gave him three Christmases ago—“Kiss Santa Under the Mistletoe” in bright red letters across the back—and humming quietly to himself.

“Buck,” I say, annoyed that he’s doing whatever this is, acting like everything is completely fine.

He turns, wooden spoon in hand. He carefully places it down. “Harriet, you’re home. I thought I had more time, I’m sorry. I planned on doing yard work and cooking you a nice meal.”

Boxed mac and cheese. How thoughtful. It doesn’t matter, anyway.

Then Buck sees Officer Brown in the doorway and Kwemby to my side. A look of raw shame flushes across his face, his eyes dropping to the floor tiles immediately.

“What’s going on?” he asks. “Why is there a police officer in my kitchen?”

“Ms. Dallas is retrieving personal items,” Officer Brown says, her voice professional. “I’m here to ensure safe access and document the removal. Please continue with your activities, but do not start an argument or get in our way. We won’t be long.”

“This is about what I did to you on the drive,” Buck says, his voice dropping to a whisper. “There is no explanation for it, Harriet. I was entirely wrong, and I take full responsibility for what I put you through.”

Officer Brown says nothing, just keeps her finger on her radio. Kwemby stands perfectly still beside me, his presence steady.

“I’m only here for the ring,” I say, each word clear so he won’t misunderstand. “Then we’ll go.”

The first real flash of understanding shifts in Buck’s expression. “You’re leaving?” he asks, his voice rising. “Yes, I made a mistake, but we can fix this, Harriet. Thank you for driving her home,” he says to Kwemby. “I can take it from here.”

“Like hell you will,” Kwemby mutters. Then, saying “sorry” to me for interjecting.

“He’s right,” I say to Buck. “No one is simply dropping me off, and what you did wasn’t a mistake. You haven’t treated me right for longer than I can remember. I can’t even pinpoint when it started—only that it grew until you did something so evil that your manipulation and abuse were too heavy to ignore.”

He crosses the kitchen in three quick strides, already reaching for me. “Baby, no—that’s not—I love you. I’ve always loved you. We can work this out.”

I step back, bumping into Kwemby’s chest. His hand comes to my waist and steadies me, before he wraps his arms around me protectively.

“I’m not your baby,” I say.

“Please,” he says, his voice cracking. “I’ll do better. I’ll go to counseling. I’ll remember about the fish. I’ll—” He drops to his knees on the kitchen tile, one hand already reaching. “I can’t lose you, Harriet. You’re my wife. You’re my life.”

His display is absurd.