Chương 6
He always needed to keep one hand on the edge of his dignity.
“So what exactly happened this morning?” I asked.
He looked relieved to move toward facts.
“Mom called at six.”
“Of course she did.”
“She said the mortgage bounced and you were punishing her.”
“Accurate framing.”
“I told her to call the bank.”
“That was unexpectedly useful.”
“Thank you.”
“She showed me her checking account.”
“Why?”
“Because I told her I’d cover the difference.”
My jaw tightened.
Ryan held up a hand.
“I said difference, not everything.”
“How much did you give her?”
“Nothing yet.”
“Why?”
“Because when I asked where Dad’s money was, she got weird.”
“What does weird mean?”
“She said she didn’t want to talk about him.”
“That’s not unusual.”
“Then I asked if his retirement was gone.”
“And?”
“She said most of it.”
I stared at him.
“Most?”
“Her word.”
“In six years?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Did she say what she spent it on?”
“No.”
“House repairs?”
“She said some.”
“What repairs?”
“I don’t know.”
“The roof was insurance.”
“I know.”
“The HVAC was twelve thousand.”
“I know.”
“She paid that?”
“She said she did.”
I thought back.
I had paid four thousand toward the HVAC because Mom said financing the entire amount would make the monthly payment too high.
“Not all of it.”
Ryan’s expression tightened.
“What?”
“I sent her four thousand.”
“When?”
“Three summers ago.”
He looked genuinely irritated now.
“At what point were you planning to tell me any of this?”
I almost laughed.
“You cannot possibly be turning this around on me.”
“I’m not.”
“It sounds exactly like that.”
“I’m saying I should’ve known.”
“That is different.”
“Fine.”
He leaned forward.
“I should’ve known.”
The barista called out an order nobody claimed.
After a few seconds, she called again, louder.
The two women at the laptop kept typing.
Outside, traffic crawled through the light.
Everything continued with offensive normalcy.
Ryan said, “There’s something else.”
My shoulders tensed.
“Of course there is.”
“When I asked if she had enough in retirement to cover a few months, she said she couldn’t touch what was left.”
“Why?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I know.”
“Is it in an IRA?”
“I don’t know.”
“Penalty issues?”
“She’s over sixty.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
Ryan looked at me carefully.
“She said, ‘That money isn’t mine anymore.’”
I felt a small cold sensation at the base of my neck.
“Who did she give it to?”
“She wouldn’t answer.”
“Ryan.”
“I asked.”
“And she said?”
“She told me to stop interrogating her.”
That sounded like Mom.
I picked up my phone again.
This time I searched for Dad’s financial adviser directly.
Carl Beckett still worked at the same firm.
His website photo showed that Ryan had been right.
He had a mustache.
I turned the phone toward him.
Ryan pointed at the screen.
“Thank you.”
“He shaved the beard.”
“History vindicates me.”
“I hate you.”
“Also fair.”
I found the office number.
Ryan watched me.
“You calling?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think he can tell us anything?”
“Probably not without Mom’s permission.”
“Then why call?”
“Because I want to know what he remembers.”
I pressed the number.
A receptionist answered on the third ring.
I introduced myself and said I was calling regarding my late father, Thomas Whitmore.
She asked me to hold.
Soft instrumental music came through the speaker.
Ryan sat very still.
A minute later, Carl answered.
“Emily Whitmore?”
“Emily Lawson now.”
“Right, right.”
His voice had aged, but I recognized the careful friendliness.
“I’m sorry, it’s been a while.”
“It has.”
“How can I help you?”
I looked at Ryan.
He mouthed, Ask about the mortgage.
“I found some old documents from after my father died.”
“All right.”
“There was a mortgage protection benefit listed as pending.”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“You remember that?”
“I remember the Whitmore file generally.”
“Do you know whether that claim was paid?”
Another pause.
Longer.
“Emily, some of that information would belong to your mother.”
“I understand.”
“So I need to be careful.”
“Can you tell me whether the document I have is incomplete?”
He was silent.
I could hear keyboard clicks.
Then he said, “What date is on your summary?”
I told him.
More typing.
Carl exhaled slowly.
“I can tell you there were later documents.”
My pulse jumped.
“What kind?”
“I can’t discuss account details.”
“I’m not asking for balances.”
“Emily.”
Something in his tone changed.
Professional caution had become discomfort.
“Did the mortgage benefit pay out?”
He did not answer immediately.
Ryan leaned closer.
Finally Carl said, “The carrier approved a benefit.”
I closed my eyes.
“How much?”
“I can’t give you that.”
“Was it close to ninety thousand?”
“I can’t confirm the figure.”
That was confirmation enough.
Ryan muttered something under his breath.
I covered the phone.
Carl continued, “Your mother elected not to apply the full proceeds directly to the mortgage.”
My eyes opened.
“What?”
“She had options under the policy structure.”
“Where did the money go?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Did it go into an account?”
“Emily.”
“Please.”
His silence felt heavy.
“I strongly recommend you speak with your mother.”
“She told my brother that I know where Dad’s money went.”
Carl stopped typing.
For three full seconds, nothing came through the line.
Then he said, very carefully, “She said that?”
“Yes.”
Another silence.
When he spoke again, the friendliness was gone.
“Emily, there is one thing I can tell you.”
Ryan’s face tightened.
Carl said, “About four years ago, your mother asked me whether a transfer to you could be reversed.”
I could hear my own heartbeat.
“What transfer?”
He breathed in.
“That is why I think you need to speak to her.”
“I never received anything from her.”
“I understand.”
“No, I mean I never received anything.”
Carl said nothing.
I stood without realizing I had moved.
Ryan stood too.
“What amount are we talking about?”
“I can’t disclose that.”
“Was it five thousand?”
“No.”
“Ten?”
“I can’t.”
May you like
“Fifty?”
Still nothing.
