Chương 9
Savannah remained at the island after the call ended, one hand resting beside the cold cup Beatrice had abandoned.
The kitchen looked unchanged, which offended her.
The lemons were still in their white bowl.
The broken mug was gone because Pike had bagged the pieces as evidence.
A thin amber stain remained near the baseboard where tea had splashed farther than anyone noticed.
Savannah stared at it until Beatrice spoke from the living room.
“Is he still at the station?”
“I don’t know.”
Beatrice appeared in the doorway with her coffee untouched.
“You called your lawyer.”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Savannah looked at her.
“The document was created recently.”
Beatrice’s shoulders loosened.
“So it’s fake.”
“Parts of it are old.”
The relief left her face.
“What does that mean?”
“It means Christopher collected signatures years ago.”
Beatrice did not move.
Savannah watched understanding arrive slowly.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“He wouldn’t have known your company would become what it is now.”
“That’s the part I don’t understand.”
Beatrice sat on the nearest stool.
“He was always ambitious.”
“That isn’t ambition.”
“No.”
Beatrice rubbed the inside of her wrist after removing the bracelet.
“He kept things.”
Savannah waited.
“What things?”
“Documents.”
“What kind of documents?”
“Everything.”
Beatrice’s eyes drifted toward the mudroom.
“Receipts, old contracts, canceled checks, business cards.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“For Christopher it was.”
Savannah said nothing.
Beatrice swallowed.
“When he was fourteen, his father promised him they would buy a dirt bike together.”
Savannah almost interrupted.
The story seemed absurdly misplaced.
Then Beatrice continued.
“His father changed his mind two weeks later because we couldn’t afford it.”
Savannah leaned against the counter.
“Christopher kept the newspaper advertisement for that bike for six years.”
Beatrice gave a small, embarrassed smile.
“He wrote the price on the back and the date his father promised.”
Savannah felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.
“He keeps evidence of disappointments.”
Beatrice looked at her.
“Yes.”
The word was barely audible.
Savannah thought of old arguments Christopher could quote almost verbatim.
A dinner in Boston when she canceled because a server failure took down a client system.
A birthday weekend she shortened after an investor called.
The year she bought him a watch he claimed was too expensive, then later accused her of using money to control him.
She had treated those contradictions as marriage.
Maybe Christopher treated them as accounts.
Beatrice placed the bracelet on the island.
“Take it.”
Savannah looked down.
“I don’t want it.”
“It was bought with your money.”
“I still don’t want it.”
“Then return it.”
“You return it.”
Beatrice looked at her sharply.
Savannah held her gaze.
For years, Beatrice had managed consequences by moving them toward Savannah.
Bills.
Reservations.
Family disputes.
Christopher’s embarrassment.
Now the habit was standing between them in the form of a diamond bracelet.
Beatrice picked it up again.
“Fine.”
Her voice turned defensive.
“I’ll return it.”
“Good.”
“That wasn’t difficult.”
“No.”
The two women looked at each other.
Beatrice almost smiled.
Then she did not.
Savannah’s phone vibrated with a message from Martin.
I canceled the remainder of today’s board session.
Take care of yourself.
No request for details.
No corporate language.
Savannah appreciated that more than she expected.
Another message arrived immediately from Rachel.
Do not access Christopher’s devices, email, cloud storage, or office without counsel.
Savannah typed, Understood.
Then she remembered the filing cabinet.
She stopped.
Beatrice noticed.
“What?”
“Did Christopher still use the storage room downstairs?”
“The room with the golf clubs?”
“Yes.”
“Sometimes.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
Savannah looked toward the basement door.
Christopher had claimed the room after his business failed.
At first he stored invoices and equipment there.
Later it became a graveyard of extension cords, tax folders, unopened boxes, and sports gear.
Savannah had not entered it in months.
Rachel’s warning repeated itself in her mind.
Do not access.
She stepped away from the basement door.
Beatrice followed her gaze.
“You think there’s something down there.”
“I think I’m not touching it.”
“Since when do you listen to lawyers?”
“Since mine started being right.”
Beatrice let out a short laugh.
It surprised both of them.
The sound vanished quickly.
Savannah touched the dressing on her cheek again.
Beatrice frowned.
“The paramedic told you not to do that.”
“You were listening.”
“I listen more than you think.”
Savannah looked at her.
Beatrice looked away.
The doorbell rang.
Both women froze.
Savannah’s pulse jumped hard enough to hurt.
Beatrice whispered, “Could he be back?”
“No.”
Savannah walked toward the foyer and checked the camera on her phone before opening the door.
Rachel stood outside under a black umbrella with a leather bag over one shoulder.
Savannah opened the door.
“You came here.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“I thought we were meeting downtown.”
“We were.”
Rachel folded the umbrella.
“Then your husband got arrested.”
Beatrice appeared behind Savannah.
Rachel nodded once.
“Mrs. Mercer.”
“Beatrice.”
Rachel entered.
She was short, precise, and perpetually dressed as though she might need to walk into a courtroom with seven minutes’ notice.
Today she wore navy trousers, flat shoes, and a gray sweater damp at the shoulders from the rain.
Her eyes went immediately to Savannah’s bandage.
“That looks worse in person.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
Rachel set her bag on the console table.
“Did you photograph it?”
“The police did.”
“You should too.”
Savannah took out her phone.
Rachel stopped her.
“Not here.”
“What difference does it make?”
“Bathroom lighting.”
Savannah stared.
Rachel shrugged.
“Better documentation.”
Beatrice said, “That might be the least comforting practical advice I’ve ever heard.”
Rachel looked at her.
“I have worse.”
Savannah took the photographs.
When she returned, Rachel had spread printed copies of the forged agreement across the dining table.
Beatrice was standing over them with her arms folded.
Rachel tapped the witness section.
“Mrs. Mercer, did Christopher ever ask you to sign blank papers?”
Beatrice frowned.
“Probably.”
Savannah looked at her.
“Probably?”
“He ran a business.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
May you like
Beatrice bristled.
“I signed things for him.”
