Chương 9
Margaret looked at it.
“You’re not.”
“I watched three videos.”
“That makes this worse.”
Emily repaired the apron at the dining table.
The stitches were uneven.
Margaret did not correct them.
“I talked to Ryan,” Emily said.
Margaret looked up.
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“How is he?”
“Bad.”
Margaret kept her face still.
Emily bit a thread.
“He’s living in an extended-stay place near the highway.”
“And Vanessa?”
“They’re separated.”
Margaret looked at the repaired strap.
“Does he blame her?”
“Yes.”
“Does he blame me?”
“Yes.”
“Does he blame himself?”
Emily hesitated.
“A little more than before.”
Margaret nodded.
That was something.
Not enough.
Something.
Emily put the apron down.
“He told me he knew the deed wasn’t legitimate.”
Margaret did not move.
“He said Vanessa told him it was temporary. That they would get you to sign real papers later.”
Margaret closed her eyes.
Emily continued carefully.
“He thought once they had enough control over the property, you’d agree because you wouldn’t want a public fight.”
Margaret felt strangely calm.
That was worse.
“So he knew.”
“Yes.”
“Why did he tell the police he didn’t?”
“I don’t know exactly.”
“Fear.”
“Probably.”
Margaret folded the apron.
Emily reached across the table.
“Mom.”
“I’m all right.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“The thing where you become a very efficient robot.”
Margaret almost corrected her.
Instead she said, “I don’t know what to feel.”
“That’s allowed.”
Margaret looked toward the fireplace.
Frank’s photograph was still there.
“You know what I hate?”
“What?”
“I understand him.”
Emily frowned.
Margaret touched the red folder, which she now kept locked in the study.
“I understand wanting something so badly that you accept the version of reality that gives it to you.”
“What did you want?”
“A family that recovered properly.”
Emily’s expression softened.
“From Dad?”
“Yes.”
“I thought if I made Christmas dinner and kept the traditions and put the right ornaments on the tree and invited everyone, eventually grief would become something we were good at.”
Emily leaned back.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It was.”
“And very you.”
Margaret smiled.
“Yes.”
In April, Detective Mercer called.
The investigation had moved forward enough that he could explain more.
The original fraudulent deed had been prepared electronically using information Vanessa had obtained from legitimate estate records. A signature purporting to be Margaret’s had been placed on the document. There were inconsistencies in the notarization. Messages recovered through lawful process suggested both Ryan and Vanessa had discussed gaining control of the house before Margaret voluntarily agreed to anything.
Mercer avoided dramatic language.
Margaret appreciated that.
He did not say they had “caught” anyone.
He did not promise a conviction.
He did not tell her justice was coming.
He explained that prosecutors would decide what charges, if any, were supported.
“Did Ryan sign my name?” Margaret asked.
“We don’t believe he physically created that signature.”
“Vanessa?”
“I can’t give you a final answer on that today.”
Margaret rubbed her forehead.
“But Ryan knew.”
“We have messages that appear relevant to his knowledge and intent.”
She closed her eyes.
“Can I see them?”
“Not through me right now.”
“What do they say?”
“I’d rather not paraphrase evidence before the process allows it.”
Margaret gave a tired laugh.
“You are remarkably committed to not satisfying anyone.”
“I’ve been told.”
After the call, Margaret drove to a garden center and bought tomato plants.
She did not need tomato plants.
Frank had been the gardener.
Margaret killed things.
Still, she bought six.
A teenage employee asked whether she wanted determinate or indeterminate varieties.
Margaret stared at him.
“Which ones survive neglect?”
He smiled.
“Plastic.”
She bought the tomatoes anyway.
By June, four were alive.
One even had fruit.
Ryan came to see them.
He had called first.
Margaret had agreed to meet in the backyard.
Not inside.
That boundary felt ridiculous and necessary.
He looked thinner.
His hair was longer.
He wore jeans and a gray shirt Margaret had never seen.
He stood beside the tomato bed.
“You planted these?”
“Yes.”
“You hate gardening.”
“I’ve developed a complex relationship with it.”
Ryan almost smiled.
Then he looked toward the house.
“Can I sit?”
Margaret gestured toward the patio chairs.
They sat.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
A lawn mower started somewhere down the block.
Ryan picked at the label on a water bottle.
Finally he said, “I lied to the police the first time.”
Margaret kept still.
“I know.”
He looked up.
“How?”
“Emily told me some. Detective Mercer told me some.”
Ryan nodded.
He looked older than forty.
“I didn’t know Vanessa had copied your signature until after she did it.”
Margaret waited.
“But I knew the document wasn’t real.”
The words seemed to hurt him physically.
He rubbed both hands over his face.
“She said it would never matter if you eventually signed a clean version. She said we just needed leverage.”
Margaret looked at him.
“Leverage.”
“I know how it sounds.”
“How did it sound then?”
Ryan stared at the ground.
“Like survival.”
Margaret’s chest tightened.
“That house was my survival.”
“I know.”
“No. I don’t think you did.”
He nodded slowly.
“You’re right.”
It was the first time she could remember Ryan saying those words to her without qualification.
Margaret looked toward the tomato plants.
One leaf had curled brown at the edge.
“What did you think would happen to me?”
Ryan’s eyes filled.
He looked away.
“I thought you’d stay.”
“In a house you claimed was yours.”
“Yes.”
“Under what conditions?”
He swallowed.
“We were going to tell you it was just about refinancing.”
“And if I refused?”
Ryan did not answer.
Margaret felt the old anger return.
Not hot.
Heavy.
“You pulled my chair away.”
“I know.”
“You told me I had ten minutes.”
“I know.”
“You let Vanessa tell me to leave with dignity.”
His mouth tightened.
“I know.”
“Why?”
Ryan breathed in.
“Because I hated you.”
Margaret froze.
He looked terrified after saying it.
She waited.
Ryan wiped his eyes angrily.
May you like
“Not all the time.”
Margaret said nothing.
