Chapter 10 - The Cracking Façade Of The Mitchell Household
The drive back to Ohio took nine hours of unbroken, agonizing silence.
Robert Mitchell drove with both hands welded to the ten-and-two positions on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on the white dashed lines of the interstate. He didn't turn on the radio. He didn't stop for food.
In the passenger seat, Eleanor sat curled in a ball, staring vacantly out the window as the landscape rolled by. Her phone rested in her lap, completely dead, drained from fifty unanswered calls to Tom’s civilian attorney.
When they finally pulled into the driveway of their brick ranch-style home on Maple Street, the sun was setting behind the manicured suburban trees.
It was the house where they had raised two children.
It was the house where they had chosen to believe a lie.
As Robert stepped out of the car, he noticed his neighbor, Harold Higgins, standing by the mailbox. Harold, a retired Marine who had served in Vietnam, walked over with a folded copy of the Norfolk Daily Press in his hand.
"Evening, Robert," Harold said, his voice unusually stiff.
"Harold," Robert grunted, reaching into his pocket for the house keys. "We’ve had a long drive. I don't have time to chat."
"I saw the military wire report this afternoon, Robert," Harold said quietly, holding up the paper.
On the third page was a clear headline: NAVAL LOGISTICS PETTY OFFICER ARRESTED IN MULTI-MILLION DOLLAR FRAUD RING AT NORFOLK.
Beneath the headline was Tom’s mugshot.
And directly below that was a quote from the presiding judicial officer: Lieutenant Commander Sarah Mitchell.
Robert froze on the porch steps, his key hovering an inch from the deadbolt.
"All these years, Robert," Harold said, his voice laced with profound disappointment, "you told everyone on this street that your girl Sarah was a dropout and a shame. You told us Thomas was the hero."
Harold tossed the newspaper onto the porch steps.
"Turns out your daughter was a decorated commander, and your boy was a common thief. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Robert. Truly ashamed."
Harold turned and walked back across his lawn, shaking his head.
Robert stood on the porch, trembling from head to foot. He pushed the key into the lock, turned it, and opened the door.
The house smelled of stale air and old memories.
Every photograph displayed on the living room mantle featured Tom—Tom holding a high school football trophy, Tom smiling on his motorcycle, Tom wearing a sailor’s cover at a family barbecue.
There was not a single photograph of Sarah. Not one.
Eleanor walked past him, collapsing onto the floral sofa, burying her face in the cushions, her body wracked with dry, hollow heaves.
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"What have we done, Robert?" she whispered, her voice barely audible. "What have we done to our baby girl?"
Robert didn't answer. He couldn't.
