Chương 7
Paper shifted.
“He said he had learned that documents bearing your signature were circulating and that he believed you had not signed them.”
I looked at the photograph of Mercer holding the envelope with my name.
“So he knew.”
“Apparently before last night.”
“Then why was he at my house this morning?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why was he standing beside my father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why is my father trying to marry me to him?”
Evan stopped.
“Excuse me?”
Renee leaned closer, listening to my side of the conversation.
“You heard me.”
“I don’t believe Ms. Kline knows anything about a marriage.”
“Apparently nobody does except the people who brought the dress.”
Evan was quiet for several seconds.
“When Ms. Kline reaches me, I’ll tell her this call is urgent.”
I gave him Renee’s direct hospital number and ended the call.
The moment the phone left my ear, exhaustion rolled through me.
My shoulders sank into the pillow.
Renee closed her notebook.
“You need a break.”
“I need everybody to stop stealing things.”
“You can need both.”
I looked at her.
She had the calmest face I had seen all day, and suddenly I resented it.
“My husband may have forged my signature.”
“Yes.”
“My father may have tried to take control of my trust.”
“Yes.”
“Thomas Mercer may know more about it than either of them told me.”
“Yes.”
“And you want me to rest.”
“I want you conscious enough to make decisions later.”
The irritation drained out of me as quickly as it had arrived.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t owe me pleasantness.”
“That sounds like something printed on a social worker mug.”
“It should be.”
I almost smiled again.
A knock interrupted us.
Marisol opened the door and leaned inside.
“There’s a police officer available to take a report.”
“Send them in.”
“And there’s a man downstairs asking to see you.”
My body went rigid.
“Daniel?”
“No.”
“My father?”
“No.”
“Who?”
Marisol checked a note in her hand.
“Thomas Mercer.”
Renee stood immediately.
“Did he say why?”
“He said he has documents belonging to Claire.”
The white envelope flashed in my mind.
“Don’t let him leave.”
Marisol frowned.
“I can’t detain a visitor.”
“I know.”
I pushed myself higher against the pillows.
“Tell him I’ll speak to him.”
Renee looked at me.
“You don’t have to.”
“I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
“He came here with something.”
“That doesn’t mean you owe him access.”
“I’m not giving him access.”
I looked toward the covered door.
“I’m finding out what he thinks he brought me.”
Renee considered that.
“Then I stay.”
“Yes.”
“The officer should stay too.”
“Yes.”
“And nobody closes the door.”
“Yes.”
Marisol left.
A minute later, a uniformed officer named Jordan Mills entered, listened while Renee gave him a brief account, then asked me to explain events in my own words.
I had barely reached the part about waking restrained when voices rose in the corridor.
Dad’s voice came first.
“You stay away from her.”
Thomas answered too quietly for me to hear.
Then Dad again.
“I said you stay away from my daughter.”
A security officer ordered both men to lower their voices.
My heart hammered.
Thomas spoke louder this time.
“Your daughter is the only person here I came to see.”
Dad laughed.
“You lost that privilege when you decided to grow a conscience.”
The corridor went silent.
Officer Mills looked toward the door.
So did Renee.
I swung my legs toward the edge of the bed before pain stopped me.
Marisol appeared in the doorway.
“Don’t even think about standing.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were.”
She stepped aside.
Thomas Mercer stood ten feet beyond the doorway between two security officers.
He looked older than he had in Tessa’s photograph.
His tie was gone.
His hair had come loose above one temple.
There was a red mark along his jaw as if he had shaved too quickly.
In his right hand, he held the envelope.
Dad stood farther down the hall, furious and pale.
Thomas saw me.
He did not smile.
He raised the envelope just enough for me to recognize my handwriting.
“This was left in my office twelve years ago,” he said.
Dad lunged forward.
Security caught his arm.
Thomas never looked away from me.
“Claire, your grandmother wrote the letter inside.”
Dad shouted, “He’s lying.”
Thomas finally turned toward him.
“No, Richard.”
His voice was tired rather than triumphant.
“You’ve just spent twelve years hoping she never learned why Eleanor put her name on the envelope.”
The name Eleanor struck Dad harder than any accusation had.
His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Thomas noticed.
So did I.
“Bring him in,” I said.
Dad twisted against the security officer’s grip.
“Claire, don’t.”
Thomas stepped toward the doorway.
The officer beside him moved too.
Renee looked at Officer Mills.
“Are you comfortable with this?”
Mills nodded once.
“As long as everyone stays calm.”
Dad laughed again.
“Calm.”
Nobody answered him.
Thomas entered the room alone.
Marisol pulled a chair near the foot of my bed and pointed at it.
“Sit there.”
He obeyed.
The envelope remained in his hand.
Up close, I could see how old it was.
The paper had yellowed around the edges, and one corner was bent inward.
My name had been written in dark blue ink, but the letters looked slightly faded beneath years of handling.
“Why does it look like my handwriting?” I asked.
Thomas stared down at it.
“Because you addressed it.”
“When?”
“You were sixteen.”
I looked at him.
“That makes no sense.”
“You were helping your grandmother with invitations for the company’s fiftieth anniversary dinner.”
Something stirred at the edge of memory.
A long dining table in Eleanor’s house.
Stacks of ivory envelopes.
My grandmother criticizing my handwriting while making me address eighty-three of them because hers had arthritis and Dad’s was “the handwriting of a man avoiding responsibility.”
I remembered Thomas’s name on a guest list.
May you like
Maybe I had written it.
Maybe I had written this.
