Chương 4
It was another deed.
This one involved eighty acres and a company name I had never heard before.
Red Cedar Agricultural Holdings, LLC.
Daniel whispered the name.
Then he said it again.
“Red Cedar.”
“Does that mean anything?”
“No.”
A muscle moved in his jaw.
“I don’t think so.”
The third document was a handwritten promissory note.
The ink had faded to brown.
It appeared to be between Fiona and Patrick.
The amount was one hundred and eighty thousand dollars.
My eyes fixed on the number.
“This can’t be right.”
Daniel took the page from me.
His lips parted.
The note said Patrick had received proceeds connected to the sale or transfer of farmland and agreed to repay Fiona in installments over fifteen years.
There were signatures at the bottom.
Fiona’s.
Patrick’s.
And a witness whose name neither of us recognized.
Daniel got up so abruptly his chair scraped the floor.
“He borrowed a hundred and eighty thousand dollars from her?”
“Maybe.”
“She never had that kind of money.”
“She must have if this is real.”
“No.”
He paced to the sink.
“Mom was borrowing money from us by the end.”
I felt something tighten in my chest.
Fiona had contributed when she first moved in.
Not much.
A few hundred dollars each month until her savings became thin.
Then Daniel and I stopped accepting anything.
There were prescription copays.
A wheelchair.
Repairs to the downstairs bathroom.
Groceries.
Heating.
None of it had ruined us, but it had mattered.
There were years when Daniel took every overtime shift offered.
Years when I stopped replacing shoes until the soles were smooth.
Years when Caleb learned not to ask twice for expensive things.
“Maybe Patrick paid some of it back,” I said.
Daniel turned.
“Then where did it go?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
His voice rose.
I lowered mine automatically.
“Keep it down.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s three in the morning.”
“My mother is dead.”
“That does not make the neighbors deaf.”
He stared at me.
Then he laughed once, bitterly.
“Jesus, Mabel.”
“What?”
“You’re worried about Mrs. Donnelly hearing us?”
“I’m worried about everything.”
That stopped him.
He looked away.
I regretted snapping, but not enough to apologize immediately.
Instead I opened the green bankbook.
The first page had Fiona’s name and the logo of First County Savings.
The account had been opened almost thirty years ago.
Several old entries were handwritten.
Then the records became computer printed.
The balance numbers made no sense at first because I assumed I was misreading the commas.
I ran my finger down the page.
Deposits.
Withdrawals.
Long periods with no activity.
Then, nine years earlier, a deposit of ninety-four thousand dollars.
Six years earlier, another deposit of sixty thousand.
Four years earlier, thirty-five thousand.
Daniel sat again.
“Those dates.”
“What?”
He pointed.
“That ninety-four thousand deposit.”
“Yes.”
“That was the year Patrick bought the house on Briar Lane.”
I looked at him.
“Could be coincidence.”
“He told us he got a construction contract.”
“Maybe he did.”
Daniel’s expression hardened.
“You’re defending him now?”
“I’m not defending anybody.”
“You always do this.”
“Do what?”
“Try to make every explanation less bad.”
“Because sometimes things are less bad.”
“And sometimes they’re exactly as bad as they look.”
I closed the bankbook.
“Your mother specifically told us not to fight with anyone before we know the truth.”
“She also specifically predicted I’d try to keep the peace.”
“Well, she wasn’t wrong.”
Daniel pushed back from the table again.
I caught his wrist.
“Don’t call Patrick.”
He looked down at my hand.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it.”
“Of course I was thinking about it.”
“Don’t.”
“He may have taken money from Mom.”
“We don’t know that.”
“He signed a note.”
“We don’t know what happened after.”
Daniel pulled his wrist free, not roughly.
“Fine.”
He walked to the coffee maker.
Then he stared at it as though he had forgotten how it worked.
I watched him measure grounds into the filter.
His hands shook badly enough that some spilled onto the counter.
Neither of us cleaned them.
“What else is in there?” he asked.
The final paper was different.
It was newer.
A typed letter from First County Savings, addressed to Fiona and dated three years earlier.
It confirmed the continued rental of safe-deposit box 114.
Below the bank letter was a small photograph.
I lifted it carefully.
Fiona stood beside a man I did not recognize.
She looked younger, perhaps in her late fifties.
Behind them was a farmhouse with white siding and a sagging porch roof.
Daniel came back to the table holding two mugs.
He saw the photograph and stopped.
“That’s our old house.”
“The farm?”
“Yes.”
He set both mugs down.
“Who’s the man?”
“I was going to ask you.”
Daniel picked up the photo.
He studied the man’s face for nearly a minute.
Then all the color left his.
“What?”
“I know him.”
“Who is he?”
Daniel lowered himself into the chair.
“When Dad died, there was a guy who came around for a while.”
“A friend?”
“I don’t know what he was.”
He turned the photograph over.
There was writing on the back.
I watched his eyes move across it.
“What does it say?”
Daniel did not answer.
I reached for the photograph.
He let me take it.
Fiona had written two names and a date.
Fiona and Walter Hale, June 1999.
Underneath she had added one sentence.
He knows where the rest went.
Daniel stared at the table.
“Walter Hale.”
“You remember him?”
“Barely.”
“Was he family?”
“No.”
“A lawyer?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What did he do?”
Daniel rubbed his mouth.
“I was seventeen.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“I know.”
“Then try.”
He looked at me.
“He used to come to the farm after Dad died.”
“How often?”
“Enough that Patrick hated him.”
That pulled something cold through me.
“Why?”
“I never knew.”
“Did Fiona ever mention him?”
“Not once.”
May you like
The coffee maker clicked behind us.
Neither of us moved.
