Chương 13
She spoke before Dad could continue.
“Mr. Bennett, stop reading that document aloud.”
“Who is this?”
“Maya Alvarez.”
There was a pause.
“Oh, for God’s sake.”
“Yes.”
She did not blink.
“Photograph nothing, send nothing, and do not discuss the letter with anyone except your own attorney.”
“It mentions Emma.”
“I understand.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Leave it where you found it unless law enforcement instructed you otherwise.”
Dad’s voice rose.
“It was in my desk.”
“Then leave it there.”
“This man set my daughter up.”
Maya’s eyes moved toward me.
“We do not know that.”
“He accused Emma before he was arrested.”
“That may matter.”
Claire whispered, “He planned this.”
Maya covered the phone.
“We do not know that either.”
Then she returned to Dad.
“Get your own attorney today.”
He hung up without answering.
For several seconds, I could not move.
Three months ago.
Before the arrest.
Before the wedding exclusion.
Before the final argument.
Mark had already been building a version of me.
Not just jealous.
Not just difficult.
Dangerous.
Useful.
A person he could point toward if his business began to collapse.
Claire looked at me.
“He knew.”
I swallowed.
“Maybe.”
“He knew enough to write that.”
“Yes.”
“And he made me believe you were attacking him.”
I did not answer.
Her eyes filled.
“Emma.”
I looked away.
If I looked at her too long, I was going to say something I could not take back.
Maya sat down slowly.
“This changes nothing about what either of you should do today.”
Claire stared at her.
“It changes everything.”
“Emotionally, yes.”
“No.”
Claire shook her head.
“He was preparing us to blame her.”
Maya’s voice remained calm.
“Possibly.”
“What else could that letter mean?”
“We have not seen it.”
Claire opened her mouth.
Maya cut her off.
“And neither of you should rush to give it meaning before counsel reviews it.”
I stared at the floor.
The carpet had a small brown stain near my shoe.
Coffee, probably.
Something ordinary.
Something fixable.
My phone buzzed once more.
A text from Mom.
I opened it.
I’m sorry.
Nothing else.
No explanation.
No request.
No excuse.
Just two words.
I read them twice.
Then I locked the screen.
Claire asked, “What did she say?”
I slipped the phone into my bag.
“Not enough yet.”
Claire watched me for another second, then stopped asking.
Maya checked the time.
“You both need food.”
Claire gave her a look.
“I was supposed to have a wedding lunch.”
“That is not food.”
“It was twelve thousand dollars of food.”
“That was twelve thousand dollars of catering.”
Claire stared at her.
“You really don’t soften anything.”
“No.”
I stood and reached for my bag.
“I’ll get something.”
Claire looked toward me.
“You’re leaving?”
“For sandwiches.”
“I can come.”
Maya shook her head.
“No.”
Claire frowned.
“Why not?”
“Because your phone is still off, your family is unstable, reporters are circling the venue, and you are finally in one place with counsel.”
“That sounds dramatic.”
“It is accurate.”
Claire leaned back in the chair.
“Fine.”
I stepped into the hallway before she could change her mind.
Outside, the air had warmed.
The parking lot was nearly full now, and somebody had parked badly across two spaces near the dentist’s office.
I stood beside my car and realized I had no appetite at all.
Still, I found a deli two blocks away and bought turkey sandwiches, chips, and three bottles of iced tea because decision-making had become impossible at the condiment stage.
When I returned, Maya was on another call.
Claire sat alone at the conference table, staring at nothing.
I put a sandwich in front of her.
She looked at it.
“Turkey?”
“Yes.”
“I hate turkey.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I hate dry turkey.”
“So do normal people.”
She peeled back the wrapper.
“Did you get mustard?”
“Packets.”
“Yellow?”
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“Okay.”
It was ridiculous how relieved I felt to have solved one problem correctly.
Claire ate three bites before saying, “Do you remember when Dad lost his job?”
I stopped unwrapping my sandwich.
“I was in college.”
“You came home.”
“For a week.”
“He acted like nothing was wrong.”
“That sounds like him.”
“He made pancakes every morning.”
I looked at her.
“Burned pancakes.”
“He kept saying he finally had time to cook.”
I remembered the smell.
Butter and scorched batter.
Dad in sweatpants at ten in the morning, whistling too loudly.
Mom clipping coupons for the first time in her life and pretending it was because she had discovered how satisfying it was.
Claire had been sixteen.
I had been nineteen and old enough to understand that Dad was terrified, but not old enough to know what to do with that knowledge.
“He got weird about money after that,” Claire said.
“He got controlling.”
“He called it planning.”
“He calls everything planning.”
Claire tore a mustard packet open with her teeth.
“Do you think that’s why he trusted Mark?”
“Maybe.”
“Because Mark made him feel like he had control again?”
I considered it.
“That sounds plausible.”
Claire spread mustard with a plastic knife.
“I used to think Dad liked Mark because he was rich.”
“He did.”
“That too?”
“People can have multiple bad reasons.”
She almost smiled.
Then her face fell again.
“What if Dad knew something was wrong and just didn’t want to admit it?”
“That is possible.”
“You keep saying possible.”
“Because we don’t know.”
She dropped the knife.
“I am so tired of not knowing.”
“I know.”
“No, I mean physically tired.”
“Then eat.”
She glared at me.
“I hate when you’re practical.”
“You hated when I wasn’t invited too, apparently.”
The sentence slipped out before I could stop it.
Claire went still.
I closed my eyes.
“That was unnecessary.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No, it wasn’t.”
She folded the sandwich wrapper carefully.
“I was awful.”
I said nothing.
“I keep trying to find a nicer word.”
May you like
“There probably isn’t one.”
“I thought you were trying to ruin everything.”
