Chương 10
My breathing changed.
“What financial records?”
“All of them.”
“That still does not explain me.”
“She has emails from your old job.”
I frowned.
“What emails?”
“The ones from the Denver Transit contract.”
For one second, I could not place the phrase.
Then I did.
Seven years earlier, I had worked for a civil engineering consultancy that bid on a municipal transit expansion.
The project had been ugly.
Budget overruns.
Internal blame.
A subcontractor dispute.
I had spent six months sleeping badly and another year refusing to say the company’s name.
“What about it?”
“You sent me things.”
“I sent you complaints.”
“You sent me internal emails.”
My stomach tightened.
Not classified documents.
Not some cinematic secret.
Draft cost estimates.
A project manager’s messages.
A spreadsheet showing numbers that had later changed.
I had forwarded them to Taylor while furious about work, complaining that senior management would pin delays on field staff.
I had been careless.
Young enough to think marriage was the same thing as privacy.
“What does Evelyn have?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“You just said she has emails.”
“She showed me printouts.”
“When?”
“During the divorce.”
I stepped closer to the door.
“What?”
“She said if I let you have equal custody, she would send them to your old employer.”
I stared at the wood grain.
“That company already has the emails.”
“Not those.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She said some included confidential bid information.”
“That was seven years ago.”
“I know.”
“Did she actually understand what she had?”
“I don’t know.”
“And you believed her?”
“She had copies.”
“So?”
“So you told me once you could lose your license if you mishandled project documents.”
I closed my eyes.
I had said something like that.
After two beers.
In a kitchen.
Years ago.
An irritated explanation about professional responsibility had apparently survived longer in Taylor’s memory than most of our happy vacations.
“She threatened my career, so you fought me for custody?”
Taylor’s voice cracked.
“No.”
“That is exactly what you just said.”
“It wasn’t only that.”
“Then what?”
“She threatened to expose Eric too.”
The answer landed differently.
“Expose what?”
“I don’t know everything.”
“Try.”
“He had represented her before.”
“Evelyn?”
“Yes.”
“For what?”
“Property stuff.”
“When?”
“Years ago.”
“And?”
“He did things for her.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know.”
“Taylor.”
“I don’t.”
Her voice rose.
Then dropped immediately, as if she remembered where she was.
“She said he had signed documents he should not have signed.”
“That sounds suspiciously vague.”
“Because she never showed me.”
“But she showed you my emails.”
“Yes.”
“So you believed she could destroy both of us.”
“I believed she could make everything worse.”
I looked toward Lily’s closed bedroom door.
“And what did you do at the quiet house?”
Nothing came back.
“Taylor?”
Her answer was almost inaudible.
“I burned things.”
I unlocked the deadbolt before I could stop myself.
I did not open the door.
I kept my hand on the latch.
“What things?”
“Files.”
“Whose?”
“Mom told me they were old tax documents.”
“And they weren’t?”
“I don’t think so.”
“When did this happen?”
“Last spring.”
My hand fell from the lock.
“That recent?”
“Yes.”
“Lily was there?”
“She wasn’t supposed to be.”
The words chilled me.
“What does that mean?”
“Mom picked her up from school because I was working.”
“And took her there?”
“I met them later.”
“You knew Lily was there.”
“I found out when I arrived.”
“Was Mia there too?”
Taylor did not answer.
I unlocked the door and opened it three inches, leaving the chain attached.
Her face appeared in the gap.
“Was Mia there?”
“Yes.”
I stared at her.
“Why?”
“Mom had taken them out for ice cream.”
“You expect me to believe she brought two children to a basement while you burned secret documents?”
“They were upstairs at first.”
“At first.”
Taylor’s eyes filled again.
“Mom made them come downstairs because they were fighting.”
“About what?”
“I don’t remember.”
“So they saw you burning papers?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“There’s an old utility sink.”
“You burned paper in a sink?”
“Some of it.”
“What else?”
“A metal trash can.”
I felt sick.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I didn’t know what they were.”
“But you knew enough to burn them.”
“Mom said Frank’s estate had already been settled and the papers needed to be destroyed.”
“Then why didn’t she shred them?”
“I asked that.”
“What did she say?”
“That shredding left pieces.”
That sounded exactly like something Evelyn would say.
Precise.
Practical.
Pointlessly ominous.
“What happened with the girls?”
“They started asking questions.”
“And Evelyn punished them.”
Taylor looked away.
“She made them sit.”
“In the thinking chair?”
Her head snapped back.
“How do you know that name?”
“Mia.”
Taylor’s face collapsed.
“Oh God.”
“Did you know about that?”
“I knew she made them sit quietly.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
“You were there.”
“I went upstairs.”
I stared at her.
“You left them with her downstairs?”
“I was upset.”
“That is not an answer.”
“I needed air.”
“You always need air when someone else pays for it.”
The sentence came out cruel.
I did not take it back.
Taylor’s mouth tightened.
“I came back down.”
“And?”
“Lily was crying.”
“What had Evelyn done?”
“She said nothing.”
“Who said nothing?”
“Mom.”
“What did Lily say?”
“She wouldn’t talk.”
I stepped away from the door and pressed both palms against the wall.
The pattern was so obvious now that I hated everyone involved, including myself.
A child goes silent.
An adult explains the silence.
Everyone accepts the explanation that requires the least inconvenience.
“Did Evelyn put her in something there too?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Because I checked.”
That made me turn.
“Checked what?”
“The storage room.”
A pulse beat in my neck.
“Why would you check a storage room?”
Taylor gripped the strap of her purse.
“Because when I came downstairs, the door was closed.”
I felt the hallway tilt.
“Was Lily inside?”
“No.”
“Mia?”
May you like
“No.”
“Then why does that matter?”
