Chương 8
He tapped it.
A new message had arrived.
Sent thirty seconds earlier.
Alex, I checked with the residence and they say they emailed you the invoice directly.
I scrolled down.
There was no invoice.
Another message arrived.
Also, Dad had a bad night.
Please don't call him today because he's confused and it upsets him.
My father read it.
His face changed.
He looked at me.
Then he looked at Lucie.
His thumb trembled over the screen.
I took the phone gently from him.
"I know."
He shook his head.
"No, Dad."
I crouched beside him.
"I know she's lying."
His eyes filled.
"But I'm not calling her."
He gripped my wrist hard enough to surprise me.
Lucie stood completely still.
"I need her to think I still believe her."
My father released me slowly.
Lucie looked toward the door.
"What happened?"
I showed her the messages.
She read them.
Then she handed the phone back.
"You didn't send the money."
"No."
"She'll notice."
"She already has."
"And if she panics?"
"Then maybe she makes a mistake."
Lucie's expression hardened.
"Don't turn this into a game."
"I'm not."
"It sounds like one."
I stood.
"What do you want me to do?"
"I want you to remember that your father is not bait."
The words hit harder than they should have.
"I would never use him."
"You used to say you'd never humiliate me either."
Neither of us moved.
My father looked from one of us to the other.
The heater clicked off.
Somewhere outside, a truck reversed with a repetitive electronic beep.
I lowered my voice.
"You're right."
Lucie blinked.
"I shouldn't have said it like that."
She said nothing.
"I won't involve him."
Still nothing.
Lucie folded one of the new blankets.
"Good."
I watched her tuck the edge into a neat square.
"Claire found evidence."
Her hands stopped.
"What evidence?"
"Your credentials were used from Margaux's workstation."
Lucie did not react the way I expected.
She sat down.
For several seconds, she simply stared at the blanket.
"Lucie?"
"Say it again."
I did.
She pressed her lips together.
"That doesn't prove she was the one using the computer."
"No."
Her eyes lifted to mine.
That single word had belonged to her the day before.
Now it belonged to me.
Something passed between us.
Not forgiveness.
Not trust.
Just recognition.
"What else?" she asked.
"My approvals were made using my old confirmation code."
"Your mother's birthday."
"Yes."
A quiet, exhausted laugh escaped her.
"God, you really were impossible."
"I remain talented."
That time she did smile.
Barely.
My father tapped the bed frame.
We looked over.
He pointed at us, then made an impatient circular motion with his hand.
Lucie frowned.
"What?"
He repeated it.
I understood first.
"He thinks we're wasting time."
Arthur nodded enthusiastically.
Lucie sighed.
"Wonderful."
I picked up his notebook.
"What aren't we asking?"
My father took the pen.
He wrote slowly.
S T R O K E.
Then underneath it, he wrote another word.
N O T.
Lucie leaned closer.
My father continued.
A C C I D E N T.
My chest tightened.
Lucie went pale.
"Arthur."
He underlined the words.
I looked at her.
"What does he mean?"
She did not answer.
"Lucie."
Her eyes remained on my father.
"The night he had the stroke," she said quietly, "he wasn't alone."
I looked at my father.
He lowered his eyes.
Lucie pulled the folding chair closer but remained standing behind it.
"Who was with him?"
Arthur reached for the notebook.
His hand hovered over the page for several seconds before he wrote.
M A R G.
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Margaux was there?"
He nodded.
"At the house?"
Another nod.
Lucie spoke before I could ask the next question.
"Arthur called me from the hospital the following morning."
I turned toward her.
"You said the clinic called you."
"They did."
She folded her arms.
"He tried first."
"What did he say?"
"Almost nothing."
"Lucie."
"He could barely speak."
She looked at Arthur.
"He kept trying to say Margaux's name and something about papers."
Dad tapped the notebook.
Lucie nodded.
"And he kept saying no."
I crouched beside him.
"What happened before the stroke?"
He tried to write.
His fingers tightened around the pen, but the letters collapsed into one another.
He swore under his breath.
It came out as a broken grunt.
"Take your time."
His eyes flashed at me.
I almost smiled despite everything.
My father had always hated that phrase.
When I was twelve, he had spent three hours teaching me to repair a bicycle chain while telling me speed was useless if you did the wrong thing quickly.
He apparently did not appreciate receiving his own philosophy back.
He tore the page out.
Then he started again.
MARG CAME.
"Margaux came to your house."
He nodded.
PAPERS.
"With papers."
Another nod.
"Sorelle?"
He shook his head.
"Loan?"
He nodded.
Lucie moved around the table and sat.
I could feel her attention sharpening.
"What kind of papers?"
Arthur wrote one word.
HOUSE.
My stomach tightened.
"The collateral?"
He nodded.
Then he wrote.
SELL.
I stared at it.
"She wanted you to sell the house?"
He shook his head hard.
Lucie leaned closer.
"She wanted you to sign something allowing a sale?"
Arthur nodded.
I stood.
"Our parents' house isn't for sale."
Lucie said nothing.
The silence reminded me that for the past three years I had known almost nothing about what happened in that house.
I visited at Christmas.
Sometimes birthdays.
Occasionally Sunday lunch.
After my mother's death, Dad had refused every suggestion that he move closer to me.
He said the house was noisy in the right places.
The heating pipes clanged in winter.
The upstairs floorboard outside my old bedroom squeaked.
The pear tree still leaned too far over the neighbor's fence.
He wanted to remain inside the life he had built with my mother.
"What exactly did Margaux ask you to sign?"
May you like
Arthur wrote again.
POWER.
