Chương 13
“Mom.”
“She was better with money.”
“That is still not why.”
Mom stood.
“I’m not going to sit here while both of you psychoanalyze me.”
“We’re not,” I said.
“You are.”
“No.”
I looked at her.
“We’re finally looking at what happened.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Your father happened.”
The sentence came out with so much bitterness that Ryan and I both froze.
Mom pressed one hand to her mouth.
Too late.
I said, “What does that mean?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
“Mom.”
“Leave it.”
“No.”
“Emily.”
“What did Dad do?”
She sat down slowly.
The anger drained out of her almost as quickly as it had arrived.
“He lied.”
“We know.”
“No.”
Her voice trembled.
“You know about the investment.”
Ryan leaned forward.
“What else?”
Mom looked toward Dad’s photograph again.
“I found out after he died that Victor wasn’t the only person he owed.”
My stomach tightened.
“How many?”
“Two more.”
Ryan whispered a curse.
“Names?”
“One was a bank.”
“That’s normal.”
“It wasn’t a mortgage.”
“What was it?”
“A line of credit.”
“How much?”
“Thirty-seven thousand when he died.”
“And the other?”
Mom swallowed.
“A woman named Elaine Porter.”
Ryan frowned.
“Who is that?”
“I don’t know.”
“You gave her money too?”
“No.”
“Did Dad owe her?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
Mom looked at me.
“She sent me a letter after the funeral.”
“What did it say?”
“That Thomas had promised to repay her.”
“How much?”
“Fifteen thousand.”
“Did she have proof?”
“She included copies of checks.”
Ryan stood and began pacing again.
“Where are those?”
“In the box somewhere.”
I started searching.
Mom said, “I never paid her.”
“Why not?”
“Because I didn’t know if it was real.”
“Did she contact you again?”
“Twice.”
“And then?”
“She stopped.”
“That seems strange.”
“I know.”
I found an envelope with PORTER written across it.
Inside were three photocopied checks.
Five thousand each.
All made out to Thomas Whitmore.
All deposited within six months.
The memo lines were blank.
The dates were during the same period as the redevelopment project.
Ryan looked at them.
“Could be investment money.”
“Could be anything.”
Mom said, “That’s what I thought.”
The letter itself was polite.
Almost painfully so.
Mrs. Whitmore, I am sorry to contact you at such a time.
Thomas had assured me the loan would be repaid from proceeds related to a property transaction.
I am attaching documentation because I understand you may not be aware of the arrangement.
I stopped reading.
“Property transaction.”
Ryan leaned over.
“Same project?”
“Probably.”
Mom nodded.
“Victor told me Elaine had nothing to do with it.”
I looked up.
“You asked Victor?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That she was trying to take advantage of Dad’s death.”
“And you believed him.”
“I didn’t know who to believe.”
“So you believed the man asking you for a hundred twenty thousand dollars.”
Her face tightened.
“He had signed documents.”
“So did Elaine.”
“I know.”
“Did you ever contact her directly?”
“I wrote once.”
“What did you say?”
“That I needed more proof.”
“And?”
“She sent another letter.”
I searched the envelope.
There it was.
Shorter.
Less polite.
Thomas was not investing on my behalf.
The funds were personal loans.
If you have been told otherwise, you have been misled.
Attached was a copy of a handwritten note.
Dad’s handwriting again.
Elaine, I will repay all 15k after the Millworks closing.
Thank you for trusting me when I don’t deserve it.
My chest tightened at the last sentence.
Ryan read it over my shoulder.
“That sounds like Dad.”
“Yes.”
Mom looked at the floor.
“I hated that note.”
I glanced at her.
“Why?”
“Because of the way he wrote to her.”
Ryan stopped.
“What way?”
Mom’s face changed.
Not anger this time.
Something older.
“I wondered if there was more between them.”
The room went still again.
“Was there?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ask her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
Mom laughed faintly.
“Because I already had one dead husband and three kinds of debt.”
Her eyes finally met mine.
“I did not want a dead husband who had also been cheating.”
There was no melodrama in the sentence.
That made it worse.
Ryan sat beside her.
For the first time that evening, he touched her.
Just one hand on her shoulder.
She did not lean into him.
She did not pull away.
I looked back at Dad’s note.
Trusting me when I don’t deserve it.
The words changed something.
Not proof.
Not yet.
But a crack.
A warning from the past none of us had known how to read.
I put the note beside the transfer forms.
“We need to find Elaine.”
Mom’s head snapped up.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Leave her alone.”
“She may know what Dad was involved in.”
“She may know nothing.”
“Then we’ll find out.”
“I said no.”
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
“I am still your mother.”
The sentence came out automatically.
We both heard it.
Mom went pale.
I stood.
“No.”
Her eyes filled.
I did not raise my voice.
“You told me yesterday you wished you had never been one.”
She flinched.
Ryan looked down.
I continued.
“You don’t get to use motherhood as authority after using it as a weapon.”
Mom’s mouth trembled.
I expected anger.
Instead she whispered, “I didn’t mean it.”
The apology I had wanted the day before arrived too late and in the wrong room.
I looked at her.
“I believe you.”
Her face changed with surprise.
Then I added, “But you still said it.”
She lowered her eyes.
I gathered the copies, Dad’s note, and Elaine’s letters.
“I’m taking photos of everything.”
Mom nodded weakly.
Ryan said, “What now?”
I looked at the name Elaine Porter.
“We find out who was telling the truth.”
My phone buzzed.
Daniel.
I almost ignored it.
Then another message arrived.
Call me before you leave your mother’s.
I frowned.
Ryan noticed.
“What?”
“Daniel.”
May you like
I opened the message thread.
There was a photo beneath his text.
