Chương 10
“Victor came back,” I said.
Mom closed her eyes.
Ryan whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
I sat across from her.
“When?”
“A little over a year after the first payment.”
“What did he want?”
“More.”
“How much?”
“Emily, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can.”
“No.”
“You used my name.”
Her shoulders jerked.
“I know.”
“Then you can do this.”
For several seconds, the only sound was the lawn mower outside moving closer, then farther away.
Finally she said, “He told me your father had owed interest.”
Ryan swore under his breath.
“How much interest?”
“Forty thousand.”
“And you paid it?”
“I didn’t have forty thousand.”
“What did you do?”
“I gave him twenty.”
“From where?”
“Dad’s retirement account.”
My mouth went dry.
“And then?”
“He said he’d wait.”
“For the rest?”
She nodded.
Ryan started pacing.
“Did Dad sign anything?”
“I never saw anything.”
“So this could have been extortion.”
Mom looked at him sharply.
“Don’t use words you can’t take back.”
“I’m not saying it to Victor.”
“You don’t know anything about him.”
“That is exactly the problem.”
I said, “Did you ever call a lawyer?”
“No.”
“The police?”
“No.”
“Dad’s attorney?”
“No.”
“Carl?”
She hesitated.
“Not about Victor.”
“Why?”
Her answer came immediately.
“Because I was ashamed.”
That stopped all three of us.
Mom stared at the torn tissue.
“I found out after your father died that he’d lied to me for almost two years.”
Her voice had lost its anger.
“He told me we were fine.”
She laughed faintly.
“He told me to stop worrying about grocery prices because we were fine.”
I remembered that.
Dad teasing her in the produce section because she refused to buy blueberries unless they were on sale.
I had forgotten it until then.
Mom continued.
“Then he died, and I found statements I didn’t understand, withdrawals, letters, numbers.”
“Where are those documents now?” I asked.
“In a box upstairs.”
Ryan stopped pacing.
“You kept them?”
“I kept everything.”
That sounded like her.
Mom still had utility bills from 2009 because throwing away paperwork made her nervous.
“Then get them,” I said.
She looked at me.
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“It’s late.”
“It’s seven thirty.”
“I’m tired.”
“So am I.”
Her mouth tightened again.
For a moment I expected another fight.
Instead, she stood.
“Fine.”
She went upstairs.
Ryan waited until we heard her bedroom door open.
Then he whispered, “Do you believe her?”
“About what?”
“Any of it.”
“Some.”
“Which part?”
“The shame.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah.”
“You?”
“I believe Dad lied.”
That hurt in a different way.
Dad had been dead long enough that my memories of him had smoothed at the edges.
The irritating parts had faded first.
His habit of leaving cabinet doors open.
The way he changed radio stations in other people’s cars.
His refusal to replace anything until duct tape had failed twice.
What remained was mostly kindness.
Now debt and secrecy had been dropped into that picture like ink in water.
Ryan sat beside me.
“I used to think he had everything figured out.”
“So did I.”
“He definitely did not.”
“No.”
Ryan looked toward the stairs.
“Maybe that’s hereditary.”
I bumped my shoulder lightly against his.
“Speak for yourself.”
Mom came back carrying a white banker’s box with DAD written across the lid in black marker.
She placed it on the coffee table.
Dust marked one corner.
“I haven’t opened this in years.”
Ryan removed the lid.
The smell of old paper rose immediately.
Folders.
Bank statements.
Tax returns.
Insurance letters.
A stack of sympathy cards held together with a rubber band that had gone brittle.
I reached for the first folder.
Mom grabbed my wrist.
“Wait.”
I looked at her hand.
She released me.
“What?”
“There are things in there you might not like.”
“Mom.”
“I mean about your father.”
“I assumed.”
“No.”
She swallowed.
“I mean about me too.”
Ryan sat back.
“Well, that ship has sailed.”
“Ryan.”
He raised his hands.
“Sorry.”
Mom looked at me.
“I did things after he died that I’m not proud of.”
“Besides using my name?”
“Yes.”
My stomach tightened again.
“How many things are we talking about?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is not reassuring.”
She sank into Dad’s old recliner without removing the decorative pillow first, then irritatedly pulled it out from behind her and dropped it onto the floor.
That tiny act made her look suddenly human.
Not my mother.
Just a scared sixty-eight-year-old woman who had been storing consequences in a cardboard box.
I opened the first folder.
The top document was a promissory note.
At least, it looked like one.
Thomas Whitmore’s name was typed at the top.
Victor Hale’s underneath.
Principal amount: $85,000.
Interest rate: twelve percent.
I read it twice.
Ryan leaned over.
“That’s not one twenty.”
“No.”
Mom stared at the document.
“I told you I didn’t understand all of it.”
“You said Dad owed one hundred twenty thousand.”
“That’s what Victor told me.”
“Did you see proof?”
“He showed me papers.”
“Like this?”
“I don’t know.”
The signature at the bottom looked like Dad’s.
Maybe.
I had seen his handwriting my entire life, but suddenly I did not trust myself.
The date was eighteen months before his death.
I found another document beneath it.
An LLC filing.
Carolina Millworks Redevelopment Group.
Dad’s name appeared as a minority member.
Victor Hale was listed as managing member.
Ryan whistled.
“So Dad was actually investing.”
“Looks like it.”
“What is Carolina Millworks?”
“No idea.”
Mom said, “An old factory.”
We both looked at her.
“You said you didn’t know the property,” I said.
“I didn’t remember the name.”
“That is different.”
“I’m trying, Emily.”
I bit back the response.
The next several papers were invoices from contractors.
Roof stabilization.
Environmental testing.
Demolition.
Electrical remediation.
Dad’s name was nowhere on those.
Then I found an email printout.
Thomas, we need your next capital contribution by Friday or we have to treat your share as defaulted.
May you like
The sender was Victor.
The amount requested was twenty-five thousand dollars.
