Chương 9
"What does worse mean?"
"You weren't sleeping."
"Neither was Evan."
"You called me crying and couldn't remember where you'd parked."
"My son was in intensive care."
"I know."
"Stop saying that."
"Then stop acting like we invented everything."
That landed because it contained a sliver of truth.
I had been exhausted.
I had forgotten things.
I had once spent forty minutes searching a hospital parking structure because I couldn't remember which level held my car.
Grief hadn't made those things imaginary.
It had only changed what my family believed they were entitled to do with them.
"Send me the storage address."
"Today."
"Fine."
"And don't move anything else."
"We're in Maui, Claire."
I almost laughed.
"Right."
I hung up.
Daniel called five minutes later because I had texted him three words.
I screwed up.
After I told him about the conversation, he sighed.
"Did she admit the property was moved?"
"Yes."
"Did you record the call?"
"No."
"Good."
That surprised me.
"Good?"
"California recording law is not something I want you experimenting with while furious."
I sat on the garage floor.
"She said Mom showed them paperwork in March."
"That's useful."
"She'll deny it."
"Maybe."
He paused.
"Patrick responded to the revocation."
I waited.
"He acknowledges your revocation of the power of attorney."
Relief came too quickly.
Then Daniel continued.
"But Linda is now claiming she acted before receiving notice of revocation and in good-faith reliance on the old document."
I looked at the bare shelving.
"So she's admitting she used it."
"Essentially."
"To do what?"
"That's what we're going to make them identify."
A message appeared from Tessa while he was speaking.
It contained a photograph of a storage facility business card.
No explanation.
No unit number.
I sent it to Daniel.
Then another message arrived.
This one was from Ryan.
You need to stop harassing my wife.
I showed Daniel.
"Don't answer."
"I wasn't going to."
That was almost true.
The third message came from Mom.
For the first time since the funeral, it wasn't angry.
Claire, please don't turn this into a legal war.
I read it twice.
Then a second message appeared.
There are things you don't understand about the financial situation.
My heartbeat changed.
I typed nothing.
A third message arrived.
We were trying to keep you from finding out until after Evan was better.
I stood in the empty garage with Milo pressed against my leg.
Evan had never gotten better.
Whatever they had been hiding had survived him.
I forwarded all three messages to Daniel before answering my mother.
He called immediately.
"Don't ask her what she means."
"I haven't."
"Good."
"What do you think she means?"
"I don't guess for clients when documents can answer."
"You should put that on a mug."
"I'd rather put it on an invoice."
Despite everything, I smiled.
Then he said, "Patrick just requested a call."
"With me?"
"Lawyers only for now."
"Why?"
"Because whatever Linda means by financial situation, Patrick suddenly wants to discuss settlement."
The smile disappeared.
"What settlement?"
I looked at Mom's message again.
There are things you don't understand about the financial situation.
"Daniel, I want to know everything."
"That's the plan."
"No."
I stood in the garage.
"I mean don't settle something just to save the closing."
"I can't settle anything without your authorization."
"Good."
"Claire, are you driving back to Oakland?"
"Eventually."
"Do that."
I glanced at the empty shelves.
"There's somewhere else I need to go first."
The storage facility was twelve minutes away.
It sat behind a tire shop on a wide commercial road lined with fast-food restaurants and medical offices.
The woman behind the counter wore purple reading glasses and had a tiny desk fan aimed directly at her face.
I gave her Ryan's name.
Her expression closed immediately.
"I can't give account information to anyone except the renter."
"Some of my property may be inside his unit."
"I'm sorry."
"I own the property."
"I understand."
"No, I mean the things inside it."
"I understand what you're saying."
"Can you at least tell me whether he has a unit here?"
"No."
I took out my phone, then stopped.
She watched me.
"I have photographs of him removing things from my house."
"I'm not saying I don't believe you."
"My son's belongings are there."
Her face softened.
That nearly made me cry.
I preferred resistance.
Resistance gave me something to push against.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"He died last week."
She took off her glasses.
"I'm very sorry."
I hated myself for mentioning it.
It felt like using Evan as leverage, exactly the kind of thing I was furious at my mother for doing.
I put the phone away.
"You don't have to tell me anything you're not allowed to."
"Thank you."
"If my attorney contacts the company?"
"We have procedures for legal requests."
"Okay."
I turned toward the door.
"Ma'am?"
I looked back.
"If property is disputed, your attorney may want to send us something quickly regarding preservation."
That was all she said.
It was enough.
I called Daniel from the parking lot.
He didn't praise me for getting information.
He just asked for the facility's business name and address.
Then he told me he would handle it.
I drove back to Oakland with Milo in the passenger seat because apparently I now had a dog.
He hated the freeway.
Every time a truck passed, he crouched and stared at it as if personally betrayed.
"You're dramatic," I told him.
He sneezed on my console.
Traffic slowed near Berkeley.
My phone stayed facedown in the cup holder.
For once, I let it.
The Bay appeared briefly between buildings, gray-blue beneath the afternoon light.
Evan used to announce every glimpse of water as if he had discovered the Pacific personally.
I reached for my phone to tell him something about Milo.
My hand stopped halfway.
That was the first time I understood how grief could become physical habit.
Not memory.
Not sadness.
May you like
Muscle.
My body still expected my son to exist.
