Chương 7
“That isn’t me.”
Sarah looked at her.
“I know.”
Daniel said, “You did not say that before.”
“I said I wasn’t sure.”
“You told me it was Claire.”
“I told you it sounded like Claire.”
“You accused me based on it.”
“I accused you based on more than that.”
Claire looked at Sarah.
“What more?”
Sarah hesitated.
Claire almost shouted at her.
Instead she said, “I am standing in my backyard with my daughter covered in bruises, so whatever family tradition we have of withholding information needs to end now.”
Sarah’s eyes filled, but her voice stayed steady.
“Dad kept records.”
Claire felt the old wound open instantly.
“What records?”
“His medical records.”
“That makes no sense.”
“He kept everything.”
“Our father kept grocery receipts from 1998.”
“I know.”
“He also believed microwaves ruined olive oil.”
“I know that too.”
For one second, something nearly human passed between them.
A shared memory.
Then it vanished.
Sarah looked at Daniel.
“Dad was sick before he died.”
Claire’s jaw hardened.
“We both know that.”
“He was sicker at home than he was at his appointments.”
Claire stared at her.
“What are you saying?”
“I found notes.”
“Notes from who?”
“Dad.”
Melina sighed loudly.
“This is grotesque.”
Sarah ignored her.
“He wrote down when he took medication, when he felt dizzy, when he vomited, when Daniel brought food over, when Claire was working late.”
Daniel’s face changed.
Claire saw it.
Not guilt exactly.
Recognition.
“You knew about the notebook,” she said.
Daniel shook his head.
“I knew your father wrote things down.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“I never saw it.”
Sarah said, “He mentioned you by name.”
Daniel looked at her.
“What did he write?”
“You know what he wrote.”
“No, I don’t.”
Sarah’s voice sharpened.
“He wrote that you kept reorganizing his pills.”
Daniel actually laughed.
It was brief and incredulous.
“Because he mixed them up.”
Claire remembered that.
Her father had once taken his blood pressure medication twice and spent the afternoon lightheaded.
Daniel bought him a weekly organizer afterward.
At the time, Claire had been grateful.
“What else?”
Sarah looked at Claire.
“He wrote that after Daniel started filling the organizer, he felt worse on Sundays.”
Daniel’s face flushed.
“That is insane.”
“Maybe.”
“You are implying I poisoned your father.”
“I am saying he documented a pattern.”
“A dying man documented dizziness.”
“After you changed his pills.”
“I changed the organizer.”
Claire lifted her hand.
“Stop.”
She looked at Sarah.
“Why didn’t you tell me this after Dad died?”
Sarah’s expression closed.
“Because you blamed me.”
Claire felt the air leave her.
“For what?”
“You know.”
“No.”
Sarah gave a bitter smile.
“Yes, you do.”
Claire’s memory arrived before she could stop it.
The hospice room.
Their father barely conscious.
Sarah missing for hours because she had gone home to shower.
Claire sitting beside the bed while monitors ticked softly.
Daniel bringing coffee.
Their father dying before Sarah returned.
Claire telling Sarah at the funeral home that if she had cared so much, she would have been there.
She had said worse than that.
Much worse.
“I was angry.”
“You made sure I knew.”
“I had just watched him die.”
“So had I.”
“You weren’t there.”
Sarah flinched as if the sentence were still fresh.
Claire regretted it immediately.
That angered her too.
“I’m not doing this now.”
“No.”
Sarah nodded.
“You’re right.”
Claire looked at the phone.
“How did you connect Dad’s notebook to me being sick?”
Sarah unlocked another screen.
“Because six weeks ago, you called me.”
“I did not.”
“Not that voicemail.”
Sarah opened a message thread.
“There was another call first.”
Claire stared at her.
“From my number?”
“No.”
“Whose?”
“Dad’s.”
Nobody moved.
Claire almost laughed.
“That number was disconnected three years ago.”
“I know.”
“That’s impossible.”
“It was spoofed.”
Ethan spoke for the first time in several minutes.
“That’s not difficult.”
Daniel looked at him sharply.
Ethan shrugged.
“Number spoofing exists.”
Claire turned back to Sarah.
“What happened on the call?”
“No one spoke.”
“Then why does it matter?”
“Because twenty minutes later I got a text from your number.”
“What did it say?”
Sarah showed her the screen.
Claire read the message.
DO YOU STILL HAVE DAD’S NOTEBOOK?
Her skin prickled.
“I didn’t send that.”
“I know.”
Daniel said, “Anybody could have.”
Sarah looked at him.
“Yes.”
Daniel’s jaw tightened.
“Then stop looking at me.”
Claire read the message again.
“When was this?”
“The night before you collapsed at work.”
Claire closed her eyes.
She remembered fluorescent office lights.
A paper cup of tea going cold beside her keyboard.
Standing to walk to the restroom.
Then the floor rising too quickly.
Nothing after that until an emergency department nurse asked whether she knew what year it was.
“What did you answer?”
Sarah scrolled.
She showed Claire.
YES.
The next message from Claire’s number said only:
BURN IT.
Claire felt a chill move across her shoulders despite the warm air.
“I never wrote that.”
“I figured.”
“Why?”
“Because you always hated Dad’s notebook.”
Claire looked up.
“What?”
“You called it his paranoia ledger.”
A small, awful memory surfaced.
Their father sitting at the kitchen table, writing the exact time he had taken an antacid.
Claire teasing him.
Sarah telling her to leave him alone.
“I did.”
“So if you suddenly wanted it destroyed, I paid attention.”
Daniel said, “You should have called the police.”
Sarah turned to him.
“I had two strange texts and a spoofed phone number.”
“That apparently justified accusing me.”
“No.”
Sarah’s voice sharpened.
“What justified that was finding a photograph Dad had taped inside the back cover.”
Claire looked at her.
“What photograph?”
Sarah held her gaze.
“You standing in his kitchen.”
Claire waited.
“Daniel is behind you.”
“So?”
“He has Dad’s pill organizer in his hand.”
Daniel’s face went still.
Claire looked at him.
“That proves nothing.”
Melina spoke quickly.
“Exactly.”
Claire turned.
“You’re suddenly very eager to help.”
May you like
Melina folded her arms.
“I am eager to end this circus.”
