Chương 8
“Why today?”
“Because I asked about the money.”
“No.”
I shook my head.
“Why blame me now?”
He thought about it.
“Because she needed me on her side.”
There it was.
Simple enough to be plausible.
Ugly enough to sound like us.
I gathered my things.
“I’m going to her house.”
Ryan stood.
“I’m coming.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Ryan.”
“If she starts rewriting history, I want to hear the first draft.”
Despite everything, I laughed.
“Fine.”
We drove separately.
The sun was low over Charlotte, turning windshields ahead of me into sheets of glare.
I called Daniel from a red light.
He answered on the first ring.
“You okay?”
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Going to Mom’s.”
There was a pause.
“With Ryan.”
Longer pause.
“Do I need to come?”
“I don’t know.”
“That sounded like yes.”
“I need you to stay out of it.”
“Why?”
“Because if she sees you, this becomes about Daniel ruining me.”
“She already thinks that.”
“I know.”
I tightened my grip on the wheel.
“I need this to be about her and me.”
“Okay.”
He did not sound happy.
“I’ll keep my phone on.”
“I know.”
“And Emily?”
“What?”
“Don’t let Ryan turn you into the prosecutor.”
I frowned.
“He’s not.”
“You two get together under pressure and suddenly somebody needs a whiteboard.”
“That happened once.”
“It happened at Thanksgiving.”
“Uncle Peter was lying.”
“About fantasy football.”
“He was still lying.”
Daniel sighed.
“Just remember she’s your mother, not a witness.”
I looked at the line of brake lights ahead.
“I’m not sure I know the difference anymore.”
He did not answer that.
Mom’s house was in Matthews, a two-story brick colonial she and Dad had bought when I was in middle school.
The mailbox still had a dent from when I backed into it at seventeen.
Dad had refused to replace it because, according to him, humiliation was educational.
Ryan pulled in behind me.
Mom opened the front door before either of us reached the porch.
She had been watching.
Her eyes went directly to me.
Then to Ryan.
“You brought her.”
Ryan stopped halfway up the walk.
“That’s a weird thing to say.”
Mom ignored him.
She looked at me.
“You blocked me.”
“Yes.”
“And now you show up without calling.”
“I need to ask you something.”
“I’m not discussing money with you standing on my porch.”
“Then let us inside.”
Her jaw tightened.
For one second I thought she might refuse.
Then she stepped back.
The house smelled like lemon cleaner and the vanilla candles she bought in bulk whenever they went on sale.
Dad’s old recliner was still in the living room.
Nobody sat in it.
Mom had put a decorative pillow on the seat sometime after his death, as though that officially converted grief into furniture.
Ryan wandered toward the kitchen.
“Do you have anything to drink?”
Mom stared at him.
“What?”
“I’m thirsty.”
“You had a water.”
“How do you know?”
“You left the bottle in your hand.”
He looked down.
He was still carrying it.
“Oh.”
Under other circumstances I would have laughed.
Mom sat in the armchair near the window.
She did not offer us seats.
“What do you want?”
I remained standing.
“Dad’s mortgage protection policy.”
Something flickered in her expression.
Then vanished.
“What about it?”
“It paid.”
She crossed her arms.
“Who told you?”
“Does that matter?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because my finances are private.”
“You told Ryan I knew where the money went.”
Her eyes moved to him.
Ryan leaned against the doorway.
“You did.”
“I was upset.”
“That doesn’t explain it.”
Mom looked back at me.
“I don’t remember exactly what I said.”
“You said enough.”
“Emily, I have had a terrible day.”
“So have I.”
“You caused mine.”
Ryan closed his eyes briefly.
“Mom.”
“No.”
She pointed toward me.
“She cancels payments without warning, blocks everyone, humiliates me, and now comes into my house demanding financial records.”
“I paid your bills for five years.”
“Because you offered.”
“I know.”
“And now you want gratitude.”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“The truth.”
Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
I took out my phone.
“I spoke to Carl Beckett.”
That did it.
Her face changed.
Not shock.
Recognition.
Fear, maybe.
Or anger that arrived quickly enough to hide it.
“You had no right.”
“He told me an account in my name received money.”
“He shouldn’t have told you anything.”
“Was it my account?”
She stood.
“I’m not doing this.”
“Mom.”
“I said no.”
“Did you use my name?”
“I did not steal your identity, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I didn’t say steal.”
“You didn’t have to.”
Ryan stepped away from the doorway.
“Then explain it.”
She glared at him.
“Stay out of this.”
“You dragged me into it at six this morning.”
“I was scared.”
“So you blamed Emily?”
“I did not blame her.”
“You told me she knew.”
“She did.”
I stared at Mom.
“No, I didn’t.”
Her eyes locked onto mine.
“Yes, you did.”
Something cold moved through me.
“About what?”
She looked away.
That was the first time.
Not anger.
Not defiance.
Avoidance.
Ryan saw it too.
“Mom.”
She walked toward the fireplace and adjusted a framed picture that did not need adjusting.
Dad stood in that photograph beside a lake, holding a fish and squinting at the camera.
“Your father made a mistake,” she said.
My pulse slowed in the strange way it did before something bad.
“What mistake?”
She kept her back to us.
“He borrowed money.”
I thought of the five thousand dollars.
“What kind of money?”
“A lot.”
“How much?”
“I don’t remember.”
Ryan snorted.
Mom spun toward him.
“You think this is funny?”
“No.”
“Then don’t make noises.”
He raised both hands.
I said, “Who did Dad borrow from?”
She looked at me.
“People.”
“What people?”
“Business people.”
“Dad was an electrical supervisor.”
“He had ideas.”
“What ideas?”
Her shoulders sagged slightly.
May you like
For the first time since we arrived, she looked her age.
“He tried to invest in something with a friend.”
