Chương 14
I exhaled.
“That helps me, right?”
“Not necessarily by itself.”
“Why?”
“Because you lived there when?”
“I moved back four months ago.”
“The signature is dated seven months ago.”
“I was in the city then.”
“Where?”
“My old apartment in Pilsen.”
“Good.”
Hope rose.
Maya immediately checked it.
“But we need evidence.”
“Lease.”
“Yes.”
“Utility bills.”
“Yes.”
“My job.”
“Yes.”
“I was working that day.”
“We’ll confirm.”
I stood.
For the first time, something in the chaos had edges.
A date.
A place.
A fact that did not depend on memory.
“What date?”
Maya told me.
I opened my calendar.
The day was full.
Gallery installation.
Vendor pickup.
A staff meeting.
Then I saw an evening entry.
Mercer study.
My stomach dropped.
“What?”
Maya asked.
“I drew the building that night.”
“The Mercer Building?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“On site.”
“You were physically there?”
“Yes.”
“With anyone?”
I searched my memory.
Cold pavement.
Coffee.
A security guard telling me I could not block the loading entrance.
Then another detail surfaced.
“I met someone there.”
“Who?”
“A photographer named Eli from the gallery.”
“Can he verify the date?”
“I think so.”
“Contact him later.”
I stared at the calendar.
The same day someone had electronically guaranteed a loan in my name from my parents’ house, I had been standing outside the property that loan financed.
Not as an investor.
Not as a board member.
As an artist sketching a building my father thought I was wasting my time drawing.
Maya said, “There’s more.”
I sat again.
“What?”
“The lender package includes a copy of your driver’s license.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“The copy was certified as received from you by email.”
“I never sent it.”
“Do you still use the email address listed?”
She read it.
My old RISD address.
I frowned.
“That account was deactivated after graduation.”
“Do you have access?”
“No.”
“Could your father?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did he ever know the password?”
“Probably.”
Riley made a face.
Maya continued.
“We’re going to establish whether the email actually originated from that account or whether the document package simply represents that it did.”
“Can we?”
“We can try.”
I heard papers shift.
“There is one more reason I called.”
My body tensed.
“Your mother left a voicemail at my office.”
I stared at the phone.
“How did she know who you were?”
“She said Jason received an automated inquiry after I contacted one of the lenders.”
“That was fast.”
“They have counsel.”
“What did she say?”
“She asked me not to file anything until she had spoken with you privately.”
“Did she say why?”
“Yes.”
Maya paused.
“She said there are documents your father doesn’t know she kept.”
I looked at Riley.
Neither of us moved.
“What documents?”
“She wouldn’t tell me.”
“Did she sound scared?”
Maya took a moment.
“Yes.”
I hated how quickly concern rose inside me.
“What do I do?”
“Nothing yet.”
“She might be trying to help.”
“She might.”
“She might also be trying to find out what we know.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Mom’s earlier messages.
Families handled mistakes privately.
Do not let strangers turn this into something criminal.
Please come home.
Then I thought about the restaurant.
She had corrected Dad about how long I had lived with them.
A tiny truth in the middle of a larger lie.
Maybe that had not been meaningless.
Or maybe I was still searching for pieces of the mother I wanted.
“Maya.”
“Yes?”
“If she has documents, how do we get them without me meeting her alone?”
“I can arrange contact through my office.”
“Do that.”
“And tell her something.”
Riley looked at me.
I stared at the trust transfer on my screen.
“Tell her I won’t come home.”
Maya was silent for a beat.
“Anything else?”
“Yes.”
I swallowed.
“Tell her if she wants me to believe she’s protecting me now, she needs to bring whatever she protected him with before.”
Maya did not answer for a moment.
Then she said, “I’ll tell her.”
My mother arrived at Maya’s office the next morning carrying the blue folder.
Riley and I were already in the conference room.
Maya sat at the head of the table with a legal pad and two empty water glasses in front of her.
When Mom stepped through the door, she looked smaller than she had at the restaurant.
Not physically.
Something in her posture had collapsed.
She still wore a camel coat buttoned perfectly to the throat.
Her lipstick was exact.
Her hands were shaking.
She stopped when she saw me.
“Amber.”
I did not stand.
Mom looked at Riley.
Then at Maya.
Then back at me.
“I asked for this to be private.”
“It is.”
“This isn’t private.”
She glanced at Riley again.
Riley leaned back in her chair.
“I can leave if Amber asks me.”
Mom’s mouth tightened.
I said, “She stays.”
Mom sat across from me.
The blue folder rested between her hands.
I had seen that folder for years.
Report cards.
Copies of my passport.
College letters.
The administrative version of my life.
Maya spoke first.
“Mrs. Mitchell, you said you had documents relevant to your daughter’s financial situation.”
Mom looked at me.
“I need you to understand that your father never intended for any of this to hurt you.”
I almost laughed.
Maya said, “Please start with the documents.”
Mom flinched.
Then she opened the folder.
Inside were photocopies, printed emails, tax forms, trust statements, and pages of company records.
Some had yellow tabs.
Dad loved yellow tabs.
Mom slid the first stack toward Maya.
“These are the trust records.”
I stared at her.
“You knew.”
Her fingers pressed together.
“Yes.”
“Where did Grandma’s money go?”
“We used part of it for school.”
“How much?”
“About eight thousand.”
“And the rest?”
Mom looked down.
“Jason transferred it.”
“To his company.”
“Yes.”
“Did you sign anything?”
“No.”
“Did I?”
She hesitated.
“You signed a distribution acknowledgment when you turned twenty-one.”
May you like
“What did it say?”
“That you received the remaining trust assets.”
