Chương 12
I almost apologized.
Then she said, “No.”
I frowned.
“No what?”
“No, you’re not.”
Her voice trembled.
I sat down at the kitchen table.
“Where are you?”
“Still at the hotel.”
“With Dad?”
“No.”
That surprised me.
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
“He left.”
“When?”
“About forty minutes ago.”
“With Lewis?”
“No.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He said he needed to handle something.”
My whole body tightened.
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom, did he take his laptop?”
“I think so.”
I stood.
“Did he take anything else?”
“Claire.”
“His files?”
“I don’t know.”
“Mom.”
“I don’t know.”
Her voice cracked.
I stopped.
There it was again.
The instinct to push until someone gave me a useful answer.
Dad’s instinct.
I sat back down.
“Okay.”
She sniffed.
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t have to apologize for not knowing.”
“I feel like I don’t know anything.”
That hurt in a place I was not ready to examine.
“What about Madison?”
“In her room.”
“With Trevor?”
“No.”
“Where is he?”
“With his mother.”
I looked at the clock.
The wedding night had lasted approximately four hours.
Mom said, “She keeps crying.”
I stared at the toast crumbs on my plate.
“I’m sure she is.”
“That sounded cruel.”
“It probably was.”
“She hurt you.”
“Yes.”
“I saw it.”
I said nothing.
Mom’s voice dropped.
“I saw it happen, and I went to her.”
My throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“Why did I do that?”
I could have answered.
There were a hundred answers.
Habit.
Fear.
Favoritism.
Madison was louder.
I was safer.
Mom knew I would recover quietly and Madison would punish everyone until she was comforted.
But the question belonged to her.
“I don’t know.”
She made a broken sound.
“I do.”
I waited.
“You were always the one who could handle things.”
I pressed my fingers to my forehead.
“That doesn’t mean I should have had to.”
“No.”
“You know that now?”
“Yes.”
I wanted to believe her.
I did not know if I could.
Both feelings fit inside me at once.
Mom said, “I’m going to stay here tonight.”
“With Madison?”
“Yes.”
“That’s probably good.”
“I don’t know if Trevor is coming back.”
“He needs time.”
“She thinks that means he doesn’t love her.”
“Madison thinks discomfort means abandonment.”
Mom was quiet.
“That sounded practiced.”
“It is.”
She let out a tired breath.
“I’ve made mistakes with both of you.”
I looked at the dark window over my sink.
A taxi rolled through the intersection below.
“Mom.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t do this tonight.”
“I know.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I need you not to call me about Dad or Madison unless someone is in danger.”
She swallowed.
“Okay.”
“I’m serious.”
“Okay.”
“And if Dad contacts you about the documents, don’t sign anything.”
She went silent.
“Mom?”
“He already asked.”
My chair scraped backward.
“What did he ask you to sign?”
“Nothing yet.”
“What did he say?”
“He called after he left.”
“And?”
“He said the bank had misunderstood some paperwork and he might need me to confirm that family assets were available.”
I closed my eyes.
“Do not confirm anything.”
“I won’t.”
“Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Do not send him bank statements.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not give him passwords.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not let him use your phone.”
“Claire.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
We sat in silence over the line.
Then Mom said, “He knows my email password.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“Change it now.”
“I don’t know how.”
“You do.”
“I really don’t.”
I opened my laptop.
“Okay.”
She laughed weakly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“You’re still fixing things.”
I stopped.
She was right.
Not emotionally this time.
Practically.
Still fixing.
The difference was that this one mattered.
“I’ll walk you through changing the password.”
“Okay.”
“Then you call the bank yourself tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“And after that, I’m done for tonight.”
“I understand.”
It took eleven minutes.
Mom forgot where the security settings were.
Then she forgot the new password she had just created.
We changed it a second time.
For one ridiculous minute, we argued over whether the exclamation point belonged at the end.
It felt almost normal.
When we finished, she said, “Claire?”
“Yes?”
“I’m sorry I went to Madison first.”
My eyes burned.
“I heard you.”
“That isn’t the same as accepting it.”
“No.”
“I know.”
“Good night, Mom.”
“Good night.”
I ended the call.
At two-fifteen, I finally went to bed.
I did not sleep.
At three, I checked the Mercedes location again.
Still at the hotel.
At three-thirty, I checked my email.
Nothing from the bank.
At four-ten, I heard someone in the apartment above me drop something heavy and swear.
At four-forty, I gave up and made coffee.
Rachel called at seven-thirteen.
“You’re awake.”
“I’ve been awake.”
“Of course you have.”
Her voice had the clipped energy of someone already dressed for work.
“I need you at my office at nine.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Bring your laptop, phone, and any paper copies of the original guarantee.”
“I have the signed packet.”
“Good.”
“And Rachel?”
“Yes?”
“Dad contacted Mom after leaving the hotel.”
Her tone changed.
“What did he want?”
“Access to family asset information.”
“Did she give him anything?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I walked her through changing her email password.”
“Good.”
I took a sip of coffee.
“He left with his laptop.”
“That may mean nothing.”
“I know.”
“Do not go looking for him.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
There was a pause.
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Your father emailed the lender at four-thirty this morning.”
I put the mug down.
“What did he say?”
“He claims the authorizations were executed with your verbal approval.”
For a second, I heard only the refrigerator humming.
Then I asked, “Did he attach anything?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“A message thread.”
My pulse accelerated.
“From me?”
“Purporting to be from you.”
“What does it say?”
“It appears to show you telling him to proceed with the increase.”
May you like
I gripped the edge of the counter.
“I never sent that.”
