In the car on the way home, I couldn't hold it in.

“What was that, Dan? Why did you say that to Dad? In front of everyone?”

He kept his eyes on the road.

“Because he shouldn't put any more money in.”

“Why not?”

He didn't answer.

“Dan. Do you know something about Tristan?”

A long silence. The boys were asleep in the back seat.

“Al,” he said finally, “I need you to listen to me very carefully. I can't tell you anything. Not because I don't trust you. Because I'm not allowed to. And because if I said the wrong thing, it could hurt a lot of people. Including your family.”

I stared at him.

In fifteen years, Dan had never once said anything like that.

“I'm asking you to trust me,” he said. “That's all. And if you can, help your mom keep your dad from sending that second payment.”

I looked at my husband. His tired eyes. His navy cardigan. His hands on the steering wheel at ten and two, exactly the way he's always driven.

I'd trusted him with my whole life for fifteen years. He'd never let me down once.

“Okay,” I said. “I trust you.”

He let out a long breath, like he'd been holding it for weeks.

Maybe he had.