Chương 9
“Twelve thousand.”
Margaret’s eyebrows lifted.
“Try twenty-seven.”
The room seemed to lose depth.
“What?”
“She told you twelve?”
I did not answer.
Margaret stood and walked to a sideboard.
She opened the bottom drawer and took out another folder.
This one was not color-coded.
She slid it toward me.
“Look.”
Transaction printouts.
Transfers to Linda Avery.
Small at first.
Eight hundred.
Five hundred.
Twelve hundred.
Then larger amounts.
Three thousand.
Four thousand.
A total handwritten at the bottom.
Twenty-seven thousand four hundred sixty dollars.
I checked dates.
Two years.
Not seven months.
“Where did you get these?”
“From the account.”
“Whose account?”
“Yours and Gwen’s.”
“Why weren’t these in the folders?”
“Because you asked about assets.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“You hid these until I challenged you.”
Margaret crossed her arms.
“I kept them because I knew someday I would need to prove what happened.”
“To whom?”
She did not answer.
A pulse beat under my jaw.
“Did Gwen make every transfer?”
“Ask her.”
“I’m asking you.”
“The login was hers.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No.”
“Did you make any of them?”
“No.”
“Paige?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I changed the password after I found them.”
I looked down again.
One transfer date bothered me.
March seventeenth.
I had spoken to Gwen that day.
She had been at work.
I remembered because she complained about inventory.
“What time are transfers posted?”
Margaret shrugged.
“Depends.”
I opened my phone and photographed each page.
She frowned.
“Why?”
“Records.”
“You could take the folder.”
“I’d rather photograph it.”
Her eyes followed every movement.
“Daniel.”
“What?”
“You need to understand that Gwen lies too.”
I put the phone down.
“About what?”
“She lies when she’s ashamed.”
“So do most people.”
“She lies about important things.”
“Such as?”
Margaret looked toward the stairs.
“Her health.”
“What about it?”
“She knew something was wrong earlier than she told anyone.”
“That’s her body.”
“She also told Paige she hoped the cancer would make you come home.”
My chest tightened.
“She said that?”
“According to Paige.”
“Were you there?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know.”
Margaret’s lips pressed together.
“You see?”
“What?”
“You already chose.”
“Chose what?”
“Who to believe.”
I stood.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I chose to verify.”
“That’s the same thing when you only verify me.”
I looked at the folders.
“Then give me something else to verify.”
She stared at me.
“Full statements.”
Silence.
“All accounts.”
Her face changed again.
Smaller this time.
A calculation.
“I’ll get them.”
“When?”
“Tonight.”
“Why tonight?”
“I have errands.”
“What errands?”
“Bank.”
I almost smiled.
“Convenient.”
“Not everything is a conspiracy.”
“No.”
I picked up my phone.
“Sometimes it’s just accounting.”
She did not smile.
I went downstairs.
Gwen was standing by the little mirror above the laundry sink, replacing the dressing near her chest.
She saw my face in the reflection.
“What?”
I held up the phone.
“How much money did you send your mother?”
Her hands stopped.
“Twelve.”
“Think again.”
She turned slowly.
“I told you.”
“Mom showed me twenty-seven thousand in transfers.”
Color drained from Gwen’s face.
“What?”
“Twenty-seven thousand four hundred sixty.”
“No.”
“That’s what the records show.”
“No.”
I watched her.
She was not acting the way I expected from someone caught in a lie.
She was scared.
Different thing.
“Did you send more than twelve?”
“No.”
“Could you have forgotten?”
“Fifteen thousand dollars?”
“I’m asking.”
“No.”
She grabbed the edge of the sink.
“I stopped sending her money.”
“When?”
“September two years ago.”
“There are transfers after that.”
“How many?”
“Several.”
“To Linda Avery.”
“That’s impossible.”
“Why?”
“Because she was dead.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“My mother died in November.”
Gwen’s voice broke.
“I didn’t tell you because everything was already a mess.”
I took out my phone again.
The final transfer on Margaret’s records was dated the following March.
Four months after Linda Avery had died.
Gwen stepped closer.
“Daniel.”
I zoomed in on the account number printed beside the beneficiary name.
“What is it?”
“I don’t know yet.”
I looked at her.
“But somebody kept sending money to your dead mother.”
Gwen sat down on the edge of the mattress because her knees seemed to give up before the rest of her did.
“She can’t have.”
“The account says otherwise.”
“I mean my mother can’t have received it.”
“I know.”
“She died in November.”
“I heard you.”
“She was buried before Thanksgiving.”
“I heard you.”
Her eyes sharpened.
“Then why are you looking at me like that?”
I lowered the phone.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re waiting for me to confess.”
“I’m trying to understand.”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“You’re trying not to accuse me while still accusing me.”
The sentence hit cleanly.
I leaned against the washing machine.
“I’m sorry.”
She gave a tired laugh.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I keep getting it wrong.”
“That doesn’t make it easier.”
“No.”
She rubbed her forehead beneath the cap.
“Linda’s account should have closed.”
“Do you know that for sure?”
“No.”
“Did you handle her estate?”
“My aunt did.”
“Name?”
“Carol.”
“Last name?”
“Avery too.”
“Phone number?”
“I don’t have it anymore.”
“Why?”
“Your mother replaced my phone.”
I looked at her.
“Replaced?”
“She said mine was too old.”
“When?”
“January.”
“Did you keep the old one?”
Gwen looked toward the storage shelves.
My pulse changed.
“Where?”
She stood carefully and crossed to a plastic bin marked WINTER.
Inside were scarves, two pairs of gloves, and a Christmas stocking with my name stitched crookedly across the top.
Gwen lifted the stocking and reached underneath.
Her old phone was wrapped in one of my father’s handkerchiefs.
“You hid it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Margaret told me to throw it away.”
I took it from her.
The screen was cracked in one corner.
“Does it work?”
“Sometimes.”
“Passcode?”
“0412.”
Our anniversary.
I pressed the power button.
Nothing happened.
“Battery’s dead.”
“There’s a charger in the drawer.”
May you like
Gwen pointed to a narrow cabinet beside the dryer.
The charger was buried beneath clothespins and three dead pens.
