Chương 4
“What?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation bothered me more than the words could have.
“There are people asking questions.”
“About the foundation?”
He nodded.
“About the money.”
The room changed.
Not much.
Just enough.
My mother looked at him.
“Richard.”
“What?”
He looked uncomfortable.
“She deserves to know.”
I felt something cold move through me.
“What are you talking about?”
My father looked down at his phone.
“The foundation is not the only thing people are talking about.”
He turned the screen toward me.
Another headline was loading beneath the first article.
And this one was not about what I had built.
It was about what someone believed I had hidden.
I could not sleep after reading the message.
The six words stayed on my screen long after I turned the phone face down.
Ask your sister about the birthday dinner.
I told myself there were explanations.
There were always explanations.
That was the story I had lived with for years.
Give people another chance.
Assume the best.
Wait before judging.
But there was a difference between kindness and blindness.
I had spent six months learning how to tell them apart.
At seven in the morning, I called Eleanor.
She answered after the fourth ring.
“Hey.”
Her voice sounded normal.
Too normal.
I sat at the kitchen table surrounded by paperwork and empty coffee cups.
“Where were you on the night of your birthday dinner?”
There was silence.
Not a confused silence.
Not a silence from someone trying to understand the question.
A careful silence.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Sienna, what kind of question is that?”
“The kind I’m asking.”
She laughed softly.
It was the same laugh she used whenever she wanted to make me feel unreasonable.
“You’re upset.”
“Yes.”
“Because of the article?”
“No.”
I looked at the papers in front of me.
“Because of what happened six months ago.”
Her breathing changed.
Only slightly.
But I noticed.
“You’re still angry about that?”
I closed my eyes.
That sentence told me everything.
Not because of what she said.
Because of what she didn’t say.
She didn’t say she was sorry.
She didn’t say she wished she had been there.
She said she was surprised my pain had lasted.
“I need you to answer one question.”
“What?”
“Did you contact anyone about my foundation?”
The silence returned.
This time it was longer.
“Sienna.”
“Did you?”
“Why would I do that?”
“That’s not an answer.”
She exhaled.
“I think you’re letting strangers put ideas in your head.”
“Did you?”
Her voice became sharper.
“No.”
I waited.
She waited too.
Neither of us moved.
Finally, she said, “Are you accusing me?”
“I’m asking.”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Too quickly.
“I didn’t contact anyone.”
I wrote the sentence down on a piece of paper beside me.
I did not know why.
Maybe because accountants record everything.
Maybe because after losing three people, I had learned that memories could become unreliable when emotions got involved.
“Then why would someone ask if you should control the foundation?”
“I don’t know.”
“Melissa said they mentioned your name.”
“Melissa?”
“My attorney.”
Another pause.
“Why is your attorney talking to strangers?”
“She isn’t.”
I stood up and walked toward the window.
The street outside looked ordinary.
A man walked his dog.
A neighbor carried groceries inside.
Someone laughed two houses away.
The world had continued without asking permission.
“Eleanor.”
“What?”
“If you know something, tell me.”
“I don’t.”
“Then why do you sound scared?”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
She became quiet.
Then her voice softened.
“Sienna, you need to be careful.”
“Careful of what?”
“People are watching you now.”
The words made my stomach tighten.
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
“You just said you don’t know.”
“Because I don’t.”
I heard movement on her end.
Keys.
A door.
“Are you leaving?”
“I have work.”
“You always leave when conversations get uncomfortable.”
“That’s not fair.”
Maybe it wasn’t.
Maybe it was.
The problem with families was that old arguments were never about one moment.
They carried every previous moment with them.
“I’m hanging up.”
“Eleanor.”
“What?”
“Did you know Julian had life insurance?”
The silence that followed felt different.
Like I had finally touched the thing she was trying not to reveal.
“I have to go.”
The call ended.
I stood there holding the phone.
Not angry.
Not crying.
Just empty.
Later that morning, I met Melissa at her office downtown.
She was younger than most attorneys I had worked with, but she had a habit of listening completely before speaking.
I liked that about her.
People who listen carefully usually notice what others miss.
She placed the documents I had sent her on the table.
“I reviewed the withdrawal request.”
“And?”
“It was an attempt.”
“By who?”
“We don’t know.”
“Can we find out?”
“Possibly.”
She tapped the paper.
“The request came through a financial service account connected to the foundation.”
“Connected how?”
“Someone had access information.”
My hands tightened around my coffee cup.
“Could Eleanor have done it?”
Melissa did not answer immediately.
That bothered me.
“Melissa.”
“I don’t know.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“No.”
She leaned back.
“I’m avoiding giving you an answer without evidence.”
I looked down.
That was fair.
It was also frustrating.
I wanted certainty.
I wanted someone to tell me who was responsible.
Grief had made me impatient with uncertainty.
The accident had happened in seconds.
The loss had been immediate.
But everything afterward moved slowly.
Paperwork.
Investigations.
Healing.
Truth.
Everything took time.
“Can you trace the request?”
“We can try.”
“How long?”
“A while.”
I laughed quietly.
“That’s the answer everyone gives me.”
She smiled sadly.
“That’s because it’s usually the honest one.”
Before I left her office, she stopped me.
“Sienna.”
I turned.
“Be careful about confronting your family.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is trying to create a problem, they may want you emotional.”
“You think this is intentional?”
“I think someone wants you to react before you know everything.”
May you like
The advice followed me all the way home.
For the first time since the article appeared, I considered that maybe the foundation was not the real target.
