Chương 6
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay there.”
“She’s shredding documents.”
“Then record the sound and stay outside.”
“You want me to film a door?”
“Yes.”
“That’s stupid.”
“Do it anyway.”
I called Eleanor before Vanessa could argue.
She answered immediately.
“My mother is in Dad’s study shredding something.”
There was one beat of silence.
Then Eleanor’s voice changed.
“Do not let anyone remove anything from that room.”
“I’m twenty minutes away.”
“Who is there?”
“Vanessa.”
“Anyone else?”
“My father is upstairs.”
“Call household security.”
“There isn’t security.”
“Then call the police if Patricia attempts to leave with company or trust records.”
I looked out the window at traffic crawling ahead.
“What if she destroys everything before I get there?”
“Then whatever she destroys becomes part of the problem.”
“That’s not comforting.”
“It isn’t intended to be.”
When I reached the house, Vanessa was standing outside the study with her phone held toward the door.
The shredder had stopped.
My father was at the top of the stairs in his robe, one hand gripping the railing.
He looked smaller than he had four days earlier.
“Dad, sit down.”
“No.”
Vanessa pointed at the study.
“She won’t come out.”
I crossed the hall.
“Mom.”
Nothing.
I knocked.
“Mom, open the door.”
A lock clicked.
The door opened three inches.
My mother stood behind it with swollen eyes and a strip of white paper stuck to the sleeve of her sweater.
She looked at me, then at Vanessa, then up toward my father.
“I was trying to fix it,” she said.
My father’s hand tightened on the railing.
Behind my mother, the wastebasket beside the shredder was full.
She opened the door wider.
On the desk lay a stack of payment authorizations.
Beside them was a blue ink pad.
And next to the ink pad, wrapped in an old linen handkerchief, was a rubber stamp made from an exact copy of my father’s signature.
For several seconds, nobody moved.
The stamp sat on the desk between us like something obscene.
Vanessa was the first to speak.
“What is that?”
My mother looked at her as if she had asked the wrong question.
“You know what it is.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Vanessa took one step backward.
My father began coming down the stairs.
“Dad, stay there.”
He ignored me.
He moved slowly, gripping the railing with his right hand and dragging his left foot just enough to make each step uneven.
My mother watched him descend and seemed to shrink with every step.
“Thomas.”
He did not answer her.
When he reached the bottom, I put a hand under his elbow.
He pulled away.
“I can stand.”
“Fine.”
He crossed the hall toward the study.
The room had been his for thirty years.
Dark shelves.
A wide walnut desk.
A framed photograph of the first Whitmore Logistics warehouse hanging crooked above the radiator because he had never let anyone fix it.
Now strips of shredded paper spilled from the wastebasket onto the rug.
My father saw the stamp.
His face changed.
Not dramatically.
His mouth simply opened a little, and whatever strength had carried him down the stairs seemed to leave at once.
He lowered himself into the leather chair beside the door.
“Where did you get that?”
My mother folded her arms.
“Thomas.”
“Where?”
“I had it made.”
Vanessa stared at her.
“You made a stamp of Dad’s signature?”
“He couldn’t sign everything after the stroke.”
My father looked at her.
“I could sign.”
“You could barely hold a pen.”
“I could sign.”
“You were exhausted.”
“That did not make you me.”
Patricia flinched.
Vanessa looked between them.
“Mom, what did you use it for?”
My mother did not answer.
“Mom.”
“For paperwork.”
“What paperwork?”
“Bills.”
“Which bills?”
“House things.”
Vanessa’s voice sharpened.
“What house?”
Patricia looked at her.
That was answer enough.
Vanessa went pale.
“My house?”
“I was helping you.”
“I didn’t ask you to forge Dad’s signature.”
“No, you asked me every day how we were supposed to finish when the bank wouldn’t extend the construction loan.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“You cried in my kitchen.”
“I was scared.”
“So was I.”
My father closed his eyes.
I looked at the documents on the desk.
Some were intact.
Some had been torn in half before being fed into the shredder.
“Mom, step away from the desk.”
She turned to me.
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a criminal.”
“Then stop destroying records.”
“I wasn’t destroying records.”
Vanessa gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
“What do you call that?”
Patricia looked at the shredder.
“Copies.”
“Copies of what?”
“Things that would be misunderstood.”
My father opened his eyes.
“That is an extraordinary sentence, Patty.”
She looked at him then.
For the first time, she seemed frightened by him rather than for him.
“You told me Vanessa needed help.”
“I said we would help her.”
“You said she wasn’t going to lose the house.”
“That didn’t mean stealing from my company.”
“I didn’t steal.”
“You moved money without authorization.”
“It was our money.”
“No.”
The word was quiet.
“That company has employees.”
Patricia’s face tightened.
“I know that.”
“People whose retirement accounts and payroll depend on us doing things correctly.”
“I know.”
“Apparently not.”
She turned away.
Vanessa pressed both hands to her temples.
“Okay.”
Nobody responded.
“Okay, everybody needs to stop.”
My father looked at her.
“You don’t get to moderate this.”
“I’m not moderating anything.”
“You benefited from it.”
“I didn’t know.”
Patricia laughed once.
It was a bitter, exhausted sound.
“You knew enough.”
Vanessa stared at her.
“What does that mean?”
“You knew North Bay was paying contractors.”
“I thought Blake arranged financing.”
“You never asked why his former business partner was paying your electrician?”
“I asked.”
“And when he gave you some nonsense answer, you decided not to ask again.”
Blake had said almost the same thing about himself.
Vanessa’s face hardened.
May you like
“You told me Dad approved it.”
“I told you your father wanted you taken care of.”
