Part 9
“He would like to apologize more successfully.”
“That sounds unlikely.”
“It does.”
Margaret left the lemon cake on the table.
Lena did not open the envelope until morning.
The paid leave was generous. The medical coverage was complete. Attached was a handwritten note from Margaret stating that no decision about Lena’s employment would be made without Lena’s participation.
It was not an apology.
It was better than the kind Margaret might once have written.
The case developed slowly, which offended everyone except Detective Keane.
The police obtained pharmacy records showing that Camille had filled a prescription for the sedative under her own name six months earlier. She told investigators it had been prescribed for occasional insomnia. The bottle should have contained fifteen capsules. When police recovered it from a locked drawer in Camille’s bathroom, four remained.
Camille said she had taken the others herself.
Her medical records did not disprove that.
A search of her phone produced messages with Daria Holt about herbal sleep products, but nothing showing that Daria had provided prescription medication. It also showed searches for drug interactions, pill dissolution times, and whether a bank could delay implementation of a trust amendment if the person signing was medically impaired.
Grant’s phone contained the messages Margaret had summarized.
Wish he’d stay in bed for one week.
One week is all we need.
If Dad changes the trust now we’re dead.
Camille had replied: I’ll handle him.
Grant answered with a heart.
He told investigators he believed she meant she would persuade Arthur to postpone the meeting.
Camille said the same.
Lena read none of the messages directly. Detective Keane told her enough during a second interview to confirm that the case no longer depended only on what Lena had seen.
That should have relieved her.
Instead, she became angrier.
Evidence had weight when it came from phones, bank records, and laboratory reports. Her memory remained something to be tested for bias. She understood why. She did not enjoy understanding.
Six weeks after the carafe broke, Lena returned to Bellweather House to collect personal belongings from her office.
She had not resigned. She had not agreed to return.
The estate looked unchanged from the road. Stone walls, copper gutters, clipped hedges. Inside, the foyer floor had been repaired. The broken section of walnut had been replaced so expertly that the new boards were distinguishable only because they were too perfect.
The Persian runner was gone.
Paul met her in the service hall.
“You look normal,” he said.
“My elbow healed, not my personality.”
“I was trying to be kind.”
“You should practice privately.”
He hugged her carefully.
The kitchen smelled of onions and bread. A new assistant stood at the prep table chopping carrots. She looked up, recognized Lena, and looked down again with the awkwardness of someone aware she occupied temporary space.
“Where is everyone?” Lena asked.
“Arthur is in the library. Margaret is with him. Grant came at ten.”
“Here?”
“He asked to speak to them.”
“Where is Camille?”
“At their house, I think. She is not permitted to contact Arthur or you.”
Lena glanced toward the hall.
“Should I leave?”
“No.”
“That was quick.”
“I have been practicing.”
Her office contained two cardigans, a spare pair of shoes, photographs of staff holiday dinners, and a ceramic mug Simone had made in seventh grade. The handle had broken twice and been glued twice. Lena packed slowly.
Voices rose in the library.
Arthur’s carried first.
“You used my illness as cover.”
Grant answered too quietly to understand.
Then Margaret: “Stop telling us what you intended. Tell us what you did.”
Lena closed the office door.
She did not want to hear.
She continued packing while footsteps moved along the hall. A minute later, someone knocked.
Grant entered without waiting.
He had lost weight. His jacket fit loosely, and the skin beneath his eyes looked bruised. He stared at the box in Lena’s hands.
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m collecting things.”
“Mother said you haven’t decided.”
“She’s correct.”
He closed the door behind him.
Lena set down the box.
“You are not supposed to discuss the case with me.”
“I’m not here about the case.”
“What else are we likely to discuss?”
He looked at the old mug on top of her belongings.
“I’m sorry you were hurt.”
“Your father tried that sentence.”
“I mean it.”
“So did he.”
Grant pressed both hands into his pockets.
“Camille is not a monster.”
“I did not say she was.”
“She made a terrible decision because she was terrified.”
“She made it more than once.”
His jaw tightened. “You don’t know that.”
“Your father’s blood says it happened before.”
“You don’t know she did it.”
“Do you?”
Grant looked away.
A lawn mower started somewhere beyond the east windows. Its low mechanical drone filled the pause.
“She told me she put a small amount in his drink two nights earlier,” he said. “She wanted him to sleep through the morning meeting. He woke up anyway. So she tried again.”
Lena remained still.
“Have you told the police?”
Grant’s eyes came back to hers. “She told me after her arrest. It was a private conversation with my wife.”
“Have you told the police?”
“No.”
“Then why tell me?”
“Because she said you were the only person who could have seen clearly from that angle.”
Lena felt cold despite the warm office.
“What does she want?”
“She wants you to be honest that your view was partly blocked.”
“It was partly blocked. I told them that.”
“She wants you to admit you might not have seen her hand release anything.”
“I saw it.”
“The door frame—”
“I saw her fingers open.”
Grant pulled one hand from his pocket. “Lena, she is facing years of consequences for something that did not hurt Dad.”
“She put a sedative in a sick man’s drink twice.”
“He is alive.”
“Because the third time I stopped her.”
The words struck him. His face hardened.
“You have always disliked her.”
May you like
“Yes.”
The admission surprised him.
