Chương 14
“And now you’re going to hang up after telling me your pregnant girlfriend has evidence of environmental contamination tied to your family’s development deal?”
“She’s not my girlfriend.”
“That correction is not helping.”
He exhaled.
“Dad says the contamination was remediated.”
“Was it?”
“He says yes.”
“That was not my question.”
“I don’t know.”
There it was again.
The phrase that had begun to feel like the only honest thing anyone in the Reynolds family could say.
“Victor, if there was contamination and it wasn’t disclosed properly, this is bigger than your divorce.”
“I understand that.”
“Do you?”
My voice shook.
“Because you took seventy-five thousand dollars to keep quiet about a deal you didn’t understand.”
“I didn’t know about contamination.”
“You knew enough to know someone was paying you not to object.”
Silence.
I did not need him to answer.
“Do not come here,” I said.
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Do not bring this to the girls.”
“I won’t.”
“And do not do something stupid because you’re angry.”
That finally drew a bitter laugh from him.
“You think that’s my specialty?”
“I think your last year suggests it’s in the rotation.”
He did not argue.
Before ending the call, he said, “If anyone contacts you about Crescent Ridge, call my attorney.”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’ll call my own attorney.”
Another silence.
“Right.”
Then he hung up.
I stood in the kitchen holding the phone until the coffee machine beeped impatiently behind me.
Rachel’s photograph waited in my messages.
I opened it.
The document looked like an internal payment authorization sheet.
Crescent Ridge Development Partnership appeared at the top.
Five names.
Five amounts.
Five descriptions.
Daniel Mercer, twenty-five thousand dollars, retention bonus.
Naomi Prescott, twenty-five thousand dollars, retention bonus.
Elliot Barnes, twenty-five thousand dollars, retention bonus.
Martin Cole, fifty thousand dollars, remediation advisory.
Victor Reynolds, seventy-five thousand dollars, family transition consulting.
I enlarged Victor’s line.
Family transition consulting.
The phrase bothered me because it sounded deliberately meaningless.
Not accounting language.
Not project language.
Something created to survive a casual glance.
I took a screenshot of the image and immediately hated myself for doing it.
Evidence had become a reflex.
That was what living with lies did.
You began collecting things before you knew whether you needed them.
The bedroom door opened.
Charlotte came out first.
Her hair had formed an impossible shape overnight.
“Why are you awake?”
she asked.
“I could ask you the same thing.”
“I smelled coffee.”
“You don’t drink coffee.”
“I still smelled it.”
She climbed onto a kitchen chair.
“Are we going on the plane today?”
“Yes.”
She smiled.
“Can I wear my boots?”
“It’s warm outside.”
“But Ireland is cold.”
“We won’t arrive for a while.”
“So I’ll be prepared.”
I looked at her hair.
“That seems to be your philosophy.”
She nodded as though I had complimented her.
Abigail emerged several minutes later, carrying the plastic horse Charlotte had abandoned in my bed.
“You left this.”
Charlotte took it.
“Thanks.”
Abigail looked at me.
“You were on the phone.”
“Yes.”
“With Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Is he okay?”
“I don’t know.”
Her mouth tightened.
I saw the question she wanted to ask and saved her from doing it.
“We are still leaving today.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
Breakfast became cereal because I no longer had the emotional energy to defend eggs.
Charlotte celebrated as if she had won a legal appeal.
I packed the remaining bathroom items while the girls argued over whether the horse belonged in checked luggage or carry-on.
At 7:18, my attorney called.
Her name was Helen Park, and she had the rare ability to sound calm without sounding soothing.
“Victor’s counsel forwarded me his written confirmation.”
“I saw it.”
“He is not contesting the relocation.”
“Good.”
“That does not mean nobody can create inconvenience today.”
I stopped folding a towel.
“What happened?”
“His attorney asked whether you had possession of any Crescent Ridge records.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why would he ask that?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“I received a photo this morning.”
“From whom?”
“Rachel Mercer.”
A pause.
“Who is Rachel Mercer?”
“The wife of a consultant on the project.”
“Penelope.”
Helen only used my name that way when she wanted me to stop improvising.
“I didn’t ask for it.”
“But you have it.”
“Yes.”
“What does it show?”
“Payment authorizations.”
“To whom?”
I named them.
When I reached Victor, Helen went silent.
“Do not forward that document.”
“I haven’t.”
“Do not delete it either.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not discuss it by text.”
“Okay.”
“And do not go to the Reynolds house.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
“I have a flight.”
“Yes.”
For the first time all morning, someone remembered the actual shape of my day.
Helen continued.
“If law enforcement, an environmental regulator, counsel for the partnership, or anyone claiming to represent Halden contacts you, call me before answering substantive questions.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“I have no reason to think so.”
“That sounded carefully worded.”
“It was carefully worded.”
I sat on the edge of the bed.
“Could Victor’s payment affect me?”
“Not directly based on what you’ve told me.”
“What about marital assets?”
“We would need to know when the payment was made, how it was characterized, where it went, and whether it was disclosed during the divorce.”
My hand tightened.
“It wasn’t on the financial statements.”
Helen went quiet again.
“Are you sure?”
“I reviewed those statements for months.”
“Check before you conclude.”
“If the payment was marital income and intentionally omitted, that creates a separate issue.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course it did.
Even divorced, Victor had found a way to leave paperwork behind.
“I don’t want more money from him.”
“That may not be the point.”
“I know.”
“Good.”
Helen paused.
“Do you want me to review the final disclosures this morning?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll do it.”
I almost thanked her and hung up.
Then I asked, “Could any of this stop us from leaving?”
May you like
“Not based on what I know now.”
The tightness in my chest eased slightly.
