Chương 12
“She says she won’t.”
“Then she doesn’t need to say it.”
“Penelope.”
“What?”
“I think this is about money.”
That pulled me up short.
“What money?”
“Crescent Ridge.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep bringing me pieces without the picture.”
“I don’t have the picture.”
Her frustration finally surfaced.
“I’m trying to tell you something is wrong.”
“Something has been wrong for a year.”
“I mean with Dad.”
I stopped pacing.
“What happened tonight?”
“He got a call.”
“From who?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
“What did he do?”
“He went into his office and locked the door.”
“So?”
“Dad hasn’t locked that office in twenty years.”
I almost said that was not evidence of anything.
Then I remembered Walter’s rituals.
His office door always open.
His insistence that secrecy created suspicion.
His pride in behaving as though nobody had authority to question him.
“What happened after?”
“He came out and asked Mom where the old Crescent Ridge files were.”
“What old files?”
“The early partnership records.”
“Why would they be at the house?”
“Because Dad takes everything home.”
“That I believe.”
“He found a box in the basement.”
“And?”
“He burned something.”
I went silent.
“What?”
“In the fireplace.”
“You saw him?”
“Yes.”
“What was it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Samantha.”
“I tried to get close and he told me to get out of the room.”
“What did it look like?”
“Paper.”
“That narrows it down.”
“It had letterhead.”
“Whose?”
“I couldn’t see.”
I pressed my fingers to my eyelids.
“And now you want me to walk into that house tomorrow.”
“No.”
Her answer came quickly.
“I want you to know enough to decide for yourself.”
“I’ve decided.”
“All right.”
The girls’ bedroom door opened.
Abigail appeared in the hallway.
She wore her pajama shirt and one of my old cardigans.
“Mom?”
“I’ll call you back.”
I ended the call.
“What are you doing awake?”
“I heard you talking.”
“You were supposed to be asleep.”
“I tried.”
She looked embarrassed by the admission.
“Are we still going tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“No matter what?”
The question was too careful.
I walked toward her.
“No matter what.”
She studied my face.
“Dad can’t stop us?”
“No.”
“Grandma can’t?”
“No.”
“Anybody?”
“No.”
Her shoulders relaxed.
Then she asked, “Why was Aunt Samantha calling?”
“Family trouble.”
She gave me a look that was almost adult.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You’ve been spending too much time around me.”
“Probably.”
I smiled despite myself.
“There are some things happening between the adults that have nothing to do with whether we leave tomorrow.”
“Does it have to do with the baby?”
“Partly.”
She looked down.
“I feel bad for him.”
“The baby?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because everybody keeps talking about whose he is.”
I stared at her.
She rubbed one foot against the other.
“Nobody talks about whether he’s okay.”
Children had a talent for accidentally stripping situations down to their most shameful truth.
I crouched beside her.
“You’re right.”
“Is he okay?”
“As far as I know.”
“Good.”
She leaned against the wall.
“Dad seemed sad today.”
“He is.”
“Do you feel bad for him?”
The question caught me.
“Sometimes.”
“Even though he was mean to you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I took a breath.
“Because feelings don’t always follow rules.”
She considered that.
“That sounds inconvenient.”
“It is.”
She nodded as though I had confirmed something she already suspected.
“Can I sleep in your bed?”
“You’re eleven.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
I laughed softly.
“Come on.”
She climbed into my bed and immediately occupied the middle.
Ten minutes later, Charlotte wandered in carrying the plastic horse.
Nobody asked permission.
By midnight, I had six inches of mattress and one of Charlotte’s feet against my hip.
It was the best sleep I had gotten in months.
At 6:12 a.m., my phone rang.
The number was unfamiliar.
I slipped out of bed and answered in the hallway.
“Hello?”
“Penelope?”
A woman’s voice.
“Yes.”
“This is Rachel Mercer.”
Every trace of sleep disappeared.
“Daniel’s wife?”
“Unfortunately still on several documents, yes.”
Her dryness startled me.
“How did you get my number?”
“Daniel.”
“At least he admitted it.”
“He’s having a rough week with honesty.”
I leaned against the wall.
“Why are you calling?”
“Because Daniel told me Naomi asked you to go to the Reynolds house this morning.”
I frowned.
“He knows?”
“Naomi called him again around two.”
“Why?”
“To tell him not to interfere.”
“That worked well.”
Rachel made a small sound that might have been a laugh.
“Daniel has never been especially gifted at staying out of things.”
“What did Naomi say?”
“That Walter Reynolds is going to ‘make this right.’”
I straightened.
“What does that mean?”
“No idea.”
“Did she say anything else?”
“Yes.”
Rachel’s tone changed.
“She told Daniel that if he demands a paternity test, she’ll make sure his employer knows about some consulting arrangement he had with Halden.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened.
“Was it improper?”
“I’m not his lawyer.”
“That sounds like a yes.”
“It was undisclosed.”
“Conflict of interest?”
“Possibly.”
Rachel paused.
“He told me last night.”
“You didn’t know?”
“No.”
Her voice stayed controlled, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable.
“I’m currently discovering my husband in installments.”
I understood that sentence too well.
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
“What does any of this have to do with Walter?”
“That’s why I’m calling.”
I waited.
Rachel continued.
“Daniel says Walter arranged the consulting work.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course.
The pieces were no longer isolated.
They were beginning to lean toward each other.
“When?”
“About a year ago.”
“What was Daniel consulting on?”
“Vendor coordination for Crescent Ridge.”
“And Naomi?”
“She was his contact at Halden.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“That’s how they met.”
“Yes.”
“And Walter arranged it.”
“Yes.”
“Did Walter know they were having an affair?”
“Daniel says no.”
“Do you believe him?”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
Then she added, “But I don’t disbelieve him either.”
May you like
That distinction made me trust her.
“What do you want me to do?”
