Chương 14
“Conveniently.”
The observation landed harder than accusation would have.
A nurse came in carrying discharge paperwork that nobody was ready to use yet.
She apologized, said someone had printed it too early, then started laughing at herself because she had walked into the wrong room entirely.
Grace laughed too.
The nurse looked relieved.
“I’ve been here since six.”
“That explains nothing,” Grace said.
“It explains everything.”
The nurse backed out with the papers.
For a few seconds, the room felt almost normal.
Then Grace said, “I want my sister.”
“I can call her.”
“I already did.”
I looked at her.
“When?”
“While you were talking to Patel.”
“How is she?”
“Angry.”
“That sounds like Claire.”
“She called you a word I won’t repeat in front of Noah.”
“He can’t understand words.”
“He can understand tone.”
“I’m pretty sure he currently understands milk and outrage.”
Grace almost smiled.
Then her expression tightened.
“She’s coming.”
“Good.”
“She doesn’t want you here when she arrives.”
I looked down.
“Do you?”
Grace took a long time to answer.
“I don’t know.”
I nodded.
“I can leave.”
Her fingers moved over Noah’s blanket.
“I don’t want you gone.”
I looked up.
“I also don’t want to feel like I have to take care of you while she’s here.”
“You don’t.”
“You say that.”
“I’ll prove it.”
Grace studied me.
“How?”
“I’ll go get terrible hospital coffee for an hour.”
“That’s a start.”
I stood.
Noah’s eyes opened briefly.
He stared toward my chest without focusing.
“Should I say goodbye to him?”
Grace looked down at him.
“You’re coming back.”
The words were simple.
They still caught somewhere behind my ribs.
“Right.”
I reached for my coat.
Grace said, “Daniel.”
I stopped.
“Don’t go downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Your mother could be outside.”
The fear in her face appeared so quickly that my first instinct was to promise I would stay.
Instead, I said, “Where do you want me?”
“Cafeteria.”
“Okay.”
“Text me when you get there.”
“And if she contacts you—”
“I tell you.”
Grace nodded.
I left.
The cafeteria coffee was worse than advertised.
It tasted faintly like burned cardboard and somehow cost four dollars.
I sat near a window facing the parking garage.
The rain had stopped.
Cars moved through wet lanes under a pale sky.
For the first time since coming home, nobody was speaking to me.
I hated it.
Silence left too much room.
I opened my email.
Hundreds of messages had accumulated while I was away.
Most suddenly looked ridiculous.
Budget approvals.
Scheduling disputes.
A vice president complaining that another vice president had bypassed him on a staffing decision.
Three invitations to dinners I had once considered important.
I searched Rebecca’s name.
Thousands of results appeared.
Then I searched Grace.
The first recent thread stopped me.
It was from six weeks earlier.
Rebecca had sent me a draft travel extension because the negotiations had worsened.
I had replied from my phone at two in the morning.
Extend through the fifteenth if necessary.
Do not let anyone tell Grace until I speak with her.
I stared at the sentence.
I remembered writing it.
I had wanted to tell Grace myself.
I had not wanted her learning from staff that I might miss another week.
Below my reply, Rebecca had forwarded the email.
To my mother.
No message.
Just the thread.
My hands went cold.
It was not proof of a conspiracy.
It was proof that Rebecca had been feeding my mother information about things I specifically tried to keep private.
I searched further.
Another thread.
Four months earlier, Grace had asked the family office to move a prenatal appointment because she wanted me there.
Rebecca had forwarded that schedule change to my mother too.
Then another.
Then another.
Small things.
Dates.
Travel changes.
Private lunches.
The therapist Grace had started seeing after a difficult first trimester.
My mother had known the therapist’s name.
My mother had known the appointment times.
I called Patel.
He answered on the second ring.
“Daniel.”
“I found something.”
“Tell me.”
I explained the forwarded emails.
“Do not delete or alter anything.”
“I know.”
“Screenshot the search results, but leave the originals alone.”
“Can you see whether Rebecca added messages when forwarding?”
“Most of them, no.”
“Most?”
I opened another thread.
One line appeared above a forwarded email about Grace requesting a prenatal meeting without family staff present.
Mrs. Hale asked me to keep this private.
I read it aloud.
Patel was quiet.
“Send that to the preservation address I gave you.”
I did.
Then he said, “We just reached Rebecca.”
“And?”
“She’s not at home.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Her car is there.”
“Phone?”
“Off.”
“She knew you were coming.”
“Possibly.”
“What did her neighbors say?”
“One saw her leave around six this morning with a suitcase.”
I looked at the parking garage.
“Do you think my mother moved her?”
“I don’t know.”
I was starting to hate that answer because it was usually the right one.
“Do you think she’s running?”
“I don’t know that either.”
“Then what do you know?”
Patel’s voice remained calm.
“I know that people run for different reasons.”
“Guilt.”
“Fear.”
“Both.”
I closed my laptop.
“What do I do?”
“Stay with your wife.”
It was the same instruction Grace had given me.
For once, two people agreed on the only thing I was bad at.
Staying still.
I returned to the room forty minutes later.
Claire was there.
She stood beside the window with her arms folded, looking exactly like Grace except sharper somehow.
Same dark hair.
Same eyes.
None of the hesitation.
She stared at me as I entered.
“You.”
“Claire.”
“That’s your greeting?”
“I’m trying not to make things worse.”
“You’re doing a historic job.”
Grace said, “Claire.”
“I’m not starting.”
“You started before he opened the door.”
Claire looked at her sister.
“He deserves worse.”
“He probably does.”
May you like
That hurt less because Grace said it calmly.
Claire looked back at me.
