5:00 A.M.
The next morning, a deep mechanical rumble pulled me out of sleep.
I opened my eyes.
The house seemed to vibrate.
For a moment, I thought construction crews were working somewhere on Cedarbrook Lane.
Then I realized the sound was coming from behind my house.
From my backyard.
I sat up.
“What the hell?”
The noise grew louder.
Grinding.
Heavy.
Industrial.
I rushed toward the bedroom window.
Pulled back the curtain.
And my brain simply refused to understand what I was seeing.
A concrete mixer truck was backed toward my fence.
Its chute extended into my yard.
Marlene stood beside it.
Arms crossed.
Watching.
Behind the wheel was her husband.
I recognized him immediately.
He owned a construction company.
The truck carried his company logo.
Then the mixer rotated.
And I heard it.
A thick, wet slap.
Concrete hit the water.
“No.”
Another heavy stream poured from the chute.
“No, no, no.”
Gray concrete was spilling directly into the deep end of Steve’s pool.
The last thing my husband had built.
The place my children still associated with their father.
Marlene looked toward my bedroom window.
Our eyes met.
And she smiled.
She wanted me awake.
She wanted me watching.
