Chương 8
Gerald whispered, “Stop.”
I stared at him.
“You knew?”
He nodded once.
“Why would Nathan protect you?”
My father’s eyes filled, but he blinked the tears back.
“Because you asked him to.”
“I never knew.”
“Not directly.”
He looked down.
“Years ago, after your grandmother died, you told him you were afraid I would ruin myself one day and take the whole family down with me.”
I remembered saying something like that.
Not as prophecy.
As embarrassment after Gerald lost fifty thousand dollars on a restaurant partnership and Patricia spent six months pretending nothing had happened.
Nathan had remembered.
Of course he had.
“What happened when he met Cole?”
Gerald said, “We don’t know.”
Patricia’s face had gone pale.
James spoke carefully.
“Fay, Nathan met Stephen Cole two days before he collapsed.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“Where is Cole now?”
Another silence.
James answered.
“Nobody knows.”
The kitchen seemed to shrink around that sentence.
“What do you mean nobody knows?”
James answered carefully.
“Cole hasn’t been at his registered address in eleven days.”
My father swore under his breath.
Patricia looked at him.
“You knew that?”
“No.”
“Gerald.”
“I said no.”
I pressed the phone tighter to my ear.
“Was Nathan looking for him?”
“Yes.”
“Before he died?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
James exhaled.
“Because until tonight I had no reason to believe Cole’s disappearance had anything to do with Nathan’s death.”
“And now?”
“I have reason to ask questions.”
My mother gave a short, humorless laugh.
“Finally.”
I turned toward her.
“You don’t get to sound vindicated.”
“I’m not.”
“You were trying to have me declared incapable.”
“I was trying to keep you from walking into something dangerous.”
“By taking away my legal authority?”
“By slowing you down.”
“Those are not the same thing.”
“No.”
She looked tired suddenly.
“They aren’t.”
That was the closest thing to an admission I had ever heard from her.
It did not make me feel better.
James said, “Fay, I need you to leave the house now.”
This time I did not argue.
I picked up my coat.
My father stepped toward me.
“Where are you going?”
“Manhattan.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“You shouldn’t drive.”
My mother closed her eyes.
“Gerald, don’t.”
He looked offended.
“I mean because she’s exhausted.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m functioning.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
I almost snapped at him, then stopped.
He was right.
I was not fine.
I had slept perhaps nine hours total since Nathan died.
My hands were trembling.
I had just learned my parents had tried to exploit my grief, my father had diverted church money, my husband had been investigating a missing investor, and half the people around me had been lying in different directions.
Driving two and a half hours in the dark was not bravery.
It was stupidity dressed as independence.
“I’ll take the train.”
Patricia said, “I’ll drive you to the station.”
“No.”
“Fay.”
“I’ll call a car.”
Gerald reached into his pocket.
“I’ll pay.”
I stared at him.
His hand stopped.
“Right.”
He put his wallet away.
The tiny gesture hurt more than it should have.
I requested a ride while they stood in the kitchen watching me.
Six minutes.
The app said the driver was finishing another trip nearby.
For those six minutes, none of us knew what to do with one another.
Patricia wiped an already clean counter.
Gerald picked up the unbroken glass from the sink and inspected it as though it had become important.
I stood near the front door with my coat over one arm.
Finally my mother said, “You left your tea.”
“I know.”
“It’ll stain the table if the mug sweats.”
I almost laughed.
“I’ll move it.”
She stared at me.
Then she laughed instead.
It was small and startled, and for half a second we were simply mother and daughter again.
Then my phone vibrated.
My driver had arrived.
The moment vanished.
Outside, a dark blue Honda idled at the curb.
I opened the door.
Gerald said, “Fay.”
I looked back.
He seemed to want to say something.
Nothing came.
Patricia stood behind him with both arms wrapped around herself.
I stepped onto the porch.
My father followed.
“Wait.”
He reached into his pocket and held out a small brass key.
I did not recognize it.
“What is that?”
“Nathan gave it to me.”
My chest tightened.
“When?”
“The night he got sick.”
“Why?”
“He said if anything happened to him, I was supposed to give it to you.”
The anger returned so quickly it made me dizzy.
“You’ve had this for six months?”
“Yes.”
“And you didn’t give it to me after he died?”
“I was going to.”
“When?”
He looked down.
“I don’t know.”
I took the key.
It was old-fashioned, heavier than a house key, with the number 314 stamped into the bow.
“What does it open?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That if I knew, I might be tempted.”
I stared at my father.
“That sounds like him.”
Gerald nodded.
“He was angry with me.”
“I imagine so.”
“He still trusted me with that.”
“Or he trusted you to be ashamed enough to eventually do the right thing.”
My father flinched.
I regretted it immediately.
Not enough to take it back.
The driver lowered his window.
“Fay?”
I raised one hand.
“Coming.”
Gerald looked toward the car.
“Be careful who you trust.”
I put the brass key into my bag.
“Right now that list is very short.”
The ride to Ridgewood station took twelve minutes.
My driver, a woman named Elena, had a tiny plastic hula dancer glued to the dashboard.
She asked if the temperature was okay.
I said yes.
Then neither of us spoke.
That mercy nearly made me cry.
At the station, I bought the next ticket to Penn and sat beneath fluorescent lights that made everyone look slightly ill.
May you like
A teenager across from me ate pretzels from a vending-machine bag.
A man in a navy coat argued quietly into his headset about drywall.
