Chương 8
A third message appeared.
He is trying to protect himself.
I typed a response.
Who is this?
The answer came almost immediately.
Someone who should have told you the truth sooner.
I called Claire before responding.
She answered quickly.
"Do not reply."
"Why?"
"Because we don't know who it is."
"I think it might be someone from the foundation."
"That does not mean they are helping you."
I looked at the messages.
She was right.
Fear made people reveal things.
But fear also made people manipulate.
"Can we trace the number?"
"We can try."
While we waited, I watched the kitchen clock.
The same clock my mother had owned for fifteen years.
The same clock that had counted birthdays, holidays, arguments, and apologies.
I wondered how many times people sat beneath it knowing things they refused to say.
Then the phone rang again.
This time, it was my mother.
I almost did not answer.
But I did.
"Lena."
Her voice was barely above a whisper.
"What happened?"
"I found something."
I stood.
"What?"
"I was cleaning your father's office."
My heart started beating faster.
"Why were you cleaning his office?"
"Because I didn't know what else to do."
That sounded exactly like my mother.
When life became unbearable, she organized things.
Drawers.
Closets.
Cabinets.
Anything she could control.
"What did you find?"
She took a breath.
"An envelope."
"What was inside?"
"Copies of messages."
"Between who?"
The silence lasted too long.
Then she said,
"Between Viv and someone at the foundation."
"Who?"
My mother whispered the name.
And this time, even before she finished saying it, I knew everything was about to become more complicated.
"Marissa."
The name stayed between us for a moment.
Marissa.
I had known her for years.
Not well.
That was the strange part.
She had always been present but never central.
The kind of person families and organizations often overlook because she was useful.
She answered emails.
She organized schedules.
She fixed problems before anyone noticed there had been problems.
People like Marissa became invisible because they made everyone else's lives easier.
"Mom," I said.
"What was in the envelope?"
My mother breathed in slowly.
"Printouts."
"Of what?"
"Messages."
"Between Viv and Marissa?"
"Yes."
"About the foundation?"
"Yes."
I stood in the middle of my kitchen, staring at the blank wall above the counter.
"Did you read them?"
A long pause.
"Some."
That answer bothered me.
Not because she had read them.
Because I knew there were parts she had chosen not to tell me yet.
"What did they say?"
My mother was quiet.
Then she said, "Viv was angry."
"About what?"
"About the audit."
I closed my eyes.
"Anything else?"
"She said someone was going to ruin everything."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
The answer sounded honest.
But incomplete.
"Mom."
"I swear."
Her voice cracked.
"I don't know."
I believed that.
And somehow, that made it worse.
My mother had not been the person controlling the situation.
She had simply been standing close enough to watch it happen.
"Where is the envelope now?"
"In my room."
"Don't touch it."
"Why?"
"Because we don't know what it contains yet."
She became quiet.
"You sound like Claire."
"Because Claire is right."
My mother sighed.
"I miss when you needed me."
The sentence was so unexpected that I had no response.
Because beneath everything else, there it was.
A mother who was not just afraid of losing her family.
She was afraid of becoming unnecessary.
I softened slightly.
"Mom."
"I know."
She interrupted herself.
"I know I should have protected you."
I sat down.
The anger was still there.
But now it had company.
Sadness.
"You should have."
"I thought keeping everyone together was the same as helping."
I looked at the kitchen table.
The place where I had helped Eli with homework.
The place where I had paid bills.
The place where I had eaten birthday cake.
"Sometimes keeping things together just means nobody is allowed to admit they are broken."
She did not argue.
That was the first time in years my mother let a painful truth exist without trying to cover it.
After we ended the call, Claire called back.
"We traced the number."
I picked up immediately.
"And?"
"It belongs to a prepaid phone."
"Can you find the owner?"
"Not easily."
I frowned.
"But?"
"The phone was activated near the foundation office."
My stomach tightened.
"Today?"
"No."
"When?"
"Yesterday afternoon."
The same day as the accusation.
I walked to the window.
The street outside was dark.
"Could it be Marissa?"
"Possibly."
"Could it be Viv?"
"Possibly."
I hated that answer.
Everything had become possible.
Everyone had a reason.
Everyone had something to hide.
"What about the messages my mother found?"
"I need to see them."
"Be careful."
Everyone kept telling me that.
Be careful.
It was strange how many people said those words after they had spent years letting me walk into danger without warning.
The next morning, I went to my parents' house alone.
I told Eli I was going to handle something.
He asked if I was coming back.
I said yes.
This time, I meant it.
My mother was waiting at the door.
She looked nervous.
Not frightened.
Nervous.
There was a difference.
Fear made people freeze.
Nervousness made people prepare.
She led me upstairs without saying much.
The house felt different.
Every room felt like it contained a conversation I had not been invited into.
She opened the bedroom closet and removed a small wooden box.
I recognized it.
It had belonged to my grandmother.
My mother kept old jewelry and important papers inside.
The irony was not lost on me.
Secrets had always lived beside sentimental objects in my family.
She handed me the envelope.
"I did not know what to do."
I took it.
"You should have called me."
"I know."
"Why didn't you?"
She looked down.
"Because I was ashamed."
The answer surprised me.
"Of what?"
"Of knowing."
I held the envelope.
May you like
"Mom."
She wiped her eyes.
