Chương 3
“Why are you asking me that?”
“I saw documents in Julian’s office last month.”
“What documents?”
“Refinancing projections.”
I swallowed.
“There was a lender code I recognized from when I worked for you.”
Dad did not answer immediately.
When he finally spoke, every trace of laughter had disappeared.
“Clarissa, don’t touch anything in his office.”
“I already did.”
“What did you take?”
“Nothing.”
“Good.”
“Dad, what’s happening?”
“I need to make two calls before I answer that.”
A cold pressure settled beneath my ribs.
“Is Julian in trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m being careful.”
That sounded like my father.
It sounded so familiar that for one disorienting second I was twenty-five again, barefoot in his kitchen, stealing strawberries while he argued with someone in Singapore.
Then he said, “Where is Julian tonight?”
I looked at Chloe’s photograph still waiting in my messages.
“At the Apex gala.”
Dad went quiet once more.
When he spoke again, his voice was almost too calm.
“That,” he said, “is extremely interesting.”
“What is?”
“The Apex gala.”
I waited, but he did not elaborate.
“Dad.”
“Is Julian there as a guest, a sponsor, or because he expects to meet someone?”
“He said investors.”
“Which investors?”
“He didn’t give me a seating chart before leaving with his girlfriend.”
The word came out sharper than I intended.
My father went silent.
“Girlfriend?”
I looked at Chloe’s message again.
“That’s the part you’re interested in?”
“No.”
His voice became dangerously polite.
“That is the part I am postponing until I can discuss it without requiring medication.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
The sound startled me.
I could not remember the last time laughter had come out of me without first checking whether Julian was in the room.
Dad exhaled.
“Stay where you are for twenty minutes.”
“I told you I don’t need Raymond.”
“I’m not sending Raymond.”
“Then what are you doing?”
“Finding out why Cross Meridian’s chief executive is attending a gala hosted by a company whose restructuring committee meets at eight tomorrow morning.”
My fingers stopped against the vanity.
“What restructuring committee?”
“That’s what I need to confirm.”
The line went quiet.
I heard muffled voices on his end, then my father speaking away from the phone.
“Martin, don’t leave.”
A man answered something I could not make out.
Dad returned.
“I’m going to call you back.”
“Dad, don’t do anything.”
“That depends on what you mean by anything.”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I haven’t seen you in three years, Clarissa, and within five minutes of calling me you’ve mentioned suspicious refinancing documents and your husband taking another woman to a financing event.”
“It’s a charity gala.”
“Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”
I stood.
“Promise me.”
“I don’t promise things before I know what they cost.”
It was a sentence I had heard throughout childhood.
I hated how reassuring it felt.
“Find out what’s happening,” I said.
“That’s all.”
“All right.”
“And don’t call Julian.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Don’t threaten him.”
“I’m sixty-eight, not twelve.”
“That has never stopped you before.”
“Fair.”
He hung up.
I remained seated with the dead phone pressed against my ear.
A knock sounded on the bedroom door.
Mrs. Martha came in carrying a tray with tea, two slices of toast, and a squat glass containing two fingers of whiskey.
“I wasn’t sure which version of stronger you meant.”
I looked at the glass.
“That one.”
She set the tray down.
For several seconds, she fussed with the napkin although it did not need fussing with.
Then she said, “I should not say anything.”
“That usually means something is about to be said.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She folded the napkin again.
“Mr. Cross asked me last week whether you still kept any old family photographs.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“He didn’t say.”
“Did he ask anything else?”
She looked uncomfortable.
“Whether your father was alive.”
The whiskey remained untouched.
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
Tuesday was the same day I had found the refinancing projections on Julian’s desk.
“Did you answer him?”
“I said I believed so.”
She looked at me apologetically.
“I didn’t know it was private.”
“It shouldn’t have been.”
The bitterness in my own voice embarrassed me.
I picked up the glass.
The whiskey burned all the way down.
Mrs. Martha watched me with the expression she used when carrying fragile dishes.
“Has Julian ever asked you about my family before?”
“Not directly.”
“Indirectly?”
She glanced toward the hall.
Even with Julian gone, she lowered her voice.
“A man came to the house about two months ago.”
“What man?”
“He said he was from Mr. Cross’s office.”
I set down the glass.
“What did he want?”
“He asked to see the old guest registers.”
“We have guest registers?”
“From when the house belonged to Mr. Cross’s parents.”
That sounded exactly like something Eleanor Cross would have preserved.
Julian’s mother considered handwritten place cards evidence of civilization.
“Why would someone from his office care about those?”
“I asked.”
Mrs. Martha rubbed a thumb along the edge of the tray.
“He said they were updating security records.”
I stared at her.
“Did you believe him?”
“No.”
Her answer was immediate.
“Why not?”
“Because security people ask about locks.”
She gave a small shrug.
“They do not photograph names from dinner parties held twelve years ago.”
A chill moved across my shoulders.
“Did he photograph them?”
“Several pages.”
“Do you remember which?”
“One had your father’s name.”
The glass felt suddenly slippery in my hand.
Arthur Vance had attended a dinner in this house long before I knew Julian.
That itself was not strange.
Cleveland business circles were smaller than people liked to pretend.
What bothered me was Julian searching for proof of a connection he had supposedly stopped caring about years ago.
“Did you tell Julian?”
“I assumed the man was working for him.”
Mrs. Martha’s face tightened.
“Was that wrong?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer was becoming too common.
My phone rang.
May you like
Dad.
I answered before the first ring finished.
