Chương 11
“Good.”
“And Tiffany is calling your office.”
“She already did.”
I straightened.
“What did she say?”
“I cannot discuss details of a prospective client communication.”
“She is not your client.”
“Correct.”
“Then you can tell me.”
“No.”
“You are incredibly irritating.”
“I bill extra for that.”
I almost laughed.
Then his tone changed again.
“She confirmed enough that we are taking steps to preserve the folder at the condo.”
“How?”
“Without trespassing.”
“I assumed.”
“I am glad.”
“Does that mean the seller?”
“It means I am not discussing the mechanics with you yet.”
“Because?”
“Because if you don’t know, you cannot accidentally tell Bradley.”
“That feels insulting.”
“It is risk management.”
“I liked you more ten minutes ago.”
“That feeling will pass.”
We ended the call.
I returned to the children.
Madison had finished her apple and was now trying to convince Connor that London guards still wore red coats every day.
“Mom,” she said, “do they?”
“Some guards do.”
“See?”
Connor looked at me.
“She thinks they guard all the grocery stores.”
“I didn’t say all.”
“You said probably.”
Madison crossed her arms.
“Maybe fancy ones.”
I sat between them.
For five minutes, nobody asked me about divorce, money, lawyers, or fathers.
We discussed whether grocery stores in London sold peanut butter.
Madison wanted certainty.
Connor wanted to Google it.
I told them I suspected the British had survived this long without our help.
Connor smiled.
Then my phone vibrated again.
This time it was Brittany.
Please answer.
I ignored it.
She called.
I declined.
Then she sent a photograph.
Bradley stood beside his SUV in what looked like the clinic parking garage.
Margaret was behind him, one hand raised as if she had been arguing.
The photo had been taken from a distance.
Beneath it, Brittany wrote.
He’s going to the airport.
My stomach dropped.
A second message came immediately.
I told him not to.
Then a third.
He thinks you took something from the apartment.
I typed before I could reconsider.
I did not.
Brittany answered almost at once.
I know.
That stopped me.
I stared at the words.
I called her.
She answered in a whisper.
“Where are you?”
“Why do you know I didn’t take anything?”
“Because I was there.”
“At the penthouse?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“This morning.”
My pulse quickened.
“Before mediation?”
“Yes.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Mom wanted Bradley’s blue tie.”
I nearly closed my eyes.
Of course Margaret had cared about a tie on the morning her son ended a marriage.
“She thought he should wear the blue one for the ultrasound pictures,” Brittany said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“I know.”
Her voice sounded exhausted.
“When I went into the closet, the safe was already open.”
I stood.
“Open?”
“Yes.”
“Was anything inside?”
“Some stuff.”
“What stuff?”
“Papers.”
“Did you touch them?”
“No.”
“Did you see what they were?”
“Not really.”
“Brittany.”
“I wasn’t snooping.”
“Everybody keeps saying that today.”
She exhaled.
“I saw a folder with your name on it.”
My grip tightened.
“What did it look like?”
“Gray.”
“Any label?”
“Just your name.”
“Handwritten?”
“Yes.”
“Whose handwriting?”
“I don’t know.”
“You know Bradley’s handwriting.”
“It wasn’t his.”
The noise of the terminal seemed to press inward.
“What happened to the folder?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were standing there.”
“I grabbed the tie and left.”
“Did you close the safe?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I assumed Bradley had left it open.”
“And you never mentioned it?”
“Why would I?”
I had no good answer.
“What time was this?”
“Around seven.”
“Was anyone else in the apartment?”
“The cleaner.”
“What cleaner?”
“Maria.”
“Maria was there on Saturday?”
“She switched days because of some family thing.”
I knew Maria.
She had cleaned our home twice a week for nearly six years.
She brought homemade cookies at Christmas and refused every year when I tried to give her the glass storage containers back.
“Did she go into the bedroom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you see her?”
“In the kitchen.”
“Was anyone else there?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
I glanced at the gate.
“Why is Bradley coming here?”
“Because he thinks you have the folder.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that unless you know something.”
Brittany went quiet.
Then she said, “He found another folder.”
“What?”
“In his office at work.”
“What was in it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because when he opened it, he went pale.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Brittany.”
“I am not your investigator.”
“No, you’re the person calling me while your brother drives toward my children.”
She inhaled sharply.
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is pretending none of this affects them.”
Her voice hardened.
“I am trying to help you.”
“Then help.”
There was a long silence.
Finally she said, “The folder had the name Harbor Meridian on it.”
I closed my eyes.
“Did he say anything?”
“He asked me who had been in his office.”
“And?”
“I told him I didn’t know.”
“What was missing?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep not knowing.”
“Because he doesn’t tell me everything.”
The resentment in her voice surprised me.
For years, Brittany had behaved as if being Bradley’s sister gave her permanent access to the center of his life.
Maybe that illusion had been breaking for her too.
“Did he say why he thinks I took the files?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because there was a printout in the folder.”
“What printout?”
“An email.”
“From who?”
“I didn’t see.”
“What did it say?”
“I saw your name.”
My pulse increased.
“Where?”
“Near the bottom.”
“As sender?”
“I don’t think so.”
“As recipient?”
“Maybe.”
“Brittany.”
“I only saw it for two seconds.”
She lowered her voice.
“Then he ripped it in half.”
I stared at the floor.
“Did he throw it away?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In his office trash.”
“Harrison needs to know.”
“Who is Harrison?”
“My attorney.”
“Oh.”
Something about the way she said it made me look at the phone.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Say it.”
May you like
“Bradley said you didn’t have one.”
“He was wrong.”
