Chương 12
“Mom wouldn’t.”
I did not answer.
She stared at me.
“Vincent.”
“Mom handled problems.”
“Not this.”
“We don’t know.”
“She loved Dante.”
“That may be the point.”
Teresa pushed away from the table.
“No.”
The word came louder.
“Don’t turn her into part of this because she can’t defend herself.”
I felt anger rise.
“Then explain the initials.”
“There are millions of people with those initials.”
“Yes.”
“Margaret could be wrong.”
“Yes.”
“The calendar could mean anything.”
“Yes.”
“Stop agreeing with me like that.”
“I’m agreeing because you’re right.”
That made her angrier.
Paul stepped between us without physically moving.
“We have an entry with initials.”
“That is all.”
Teresa looked at him.
“Thank you.”
“It is not proof of identity.”
“Exactly.”
“It also should not be ignored.”
She glared at him.
“I liked you better when you complained about the coffee.”
“So did I.”
Margaret was still on speaker.
“Your mother knew.”
Teresa went still.
“What?”
Margaret sounded reluctant now.
“I didn’t want to say it without being sure.”
“Then don’t.”
“I found a text from her.”
My sister’s face emptied.
“To Dante?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Three years ago.”
“What did it say?”
Margaret hesitated.
“Tell us.”
“She wrote, ‘The girl accepted.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the table.
Margaret continued.
“Then, ‘You need to leave this alone now.’”
Teresa covered her face.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then she lowered her hands.
“That still doesn’t mean Mom met her.”
“No,” Paul said.
“It doesn’t.”
I looked at him.
“But?”
“But it means Maria knew there was a girl and knew something had been accepted.”
Teresa stood abruptly.
“I need air.”
She walked out through the kitchen.
Mrs. Alvarez started after her.
I stopped her.
“Let her go.”
Mrs. Alvarez looked toward the door.
“It’s freezing.”
“She knows where the coats are.”
Mrs. Alvarez ignored me and carried one out anyway.
Margaret said my name.
“What?”
“I’m leaving Dante.”
There was no tremor in her voice anymore.
Only fatigue.
I sat down.
“Tonight?”
“I already packed a bag.”
“Where will you go?”
“My sister’s.”
“Do the kids know?”
“No.”
“They’re not kids, really.”
“Our youngest is seventeen.”
“That still counts.”
“I know.”
For the first time, her voice softened.
“I don’t know how to tell her.”
I had no useful answer.
Seven years of grief had not made me wise.
It had mostly made me suspicious of people who claimed pain taught lessons on schedule.
“Tell her what you know.”
Margaret breathed out.
“And what do I know?”
“That her father lied.”
“That there may be a child.”
“That you’re leaving tonight because you need space.”
“You make it sound very clean.”
“It won’t be.”
“No.”
She was quiet.
“Vincent?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t protect him from this.”
The request landed harder than I expected.
“I’m not.”
“You will want to.”
I almost denied it.
Then I pictured Dante at eight years old, bloody-kneed, standing between me and our father after I broke a garage window.
I pictured him at Sofia’s funeral, gripping the back of my neck because I could not stop shaking.
I pictured him tonight asking Clara to tell police he had not hurt her.
Margaret knew exactly what she was asking.
“I know.”
“Good.”
The call ended a minute later.
Paul gathered his notes.
I remained seated.
At 2:41 in the morning, Clara appeared in the doorway.
She was barefoot and wearing the same clothes from dinner.
Her hair had come loose.
“Ellie woke up.”
“Is she okay?”
“She wanted water.”
Clara looked at the phone on the table.
“Who called?”
I could have delayed it until morning.
Part of me wanted to.
Not to deceive her.
To give her three hours in which the world contained one fewer betrayal.
Then I remembered what she had said earlier.
Nobody tells the truth all the way through.
“Margaret.”
Clara froze.
“What did she want?”
“To tell me she never met you.”
For a moment, Clara did not react.
Then she laughed.
It was one short sound.
“That’s not funny.”
“No.”
“I met her.”
“You met someone.”
Clara stared at me.
“I know what your brother’s wife looks like.”
“Did you then?”
Her mouth opened.
Closed.
Three years earlier, Clara had not known Dante was married.
She had learned after becoming pregnant.
Margaret was not famous.
Not public.
A woman could be described.
A photograph could be shown.
An identity could be borrowed.
Clara sat slowly.
“She introduced herself as Margaret.”
“Where?”
“My apartment.”
“Not a hotel?”
“No.”
“Did you ever meet anyone at the Barclay?”
She frowned.
“The Barclay?”
“In Manhattan.”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Her fear was changing into confusion.
“Why?”
I looked at Paul.
He gave a slight nod.
“Because Dante’s calendar has an entry with your name at the Barclay around the time you were paid.”
Clara shook her head.
“I never went there.”
“Who came to your apartment?”
“A lawyer and Margaret.”
“Describe the woman.”
Clara looked offended.
Then she saw my face.
“She was maybe sixty.”
I felt the answer before she finished.
“Dark hair with gray in it.”
“Short.”
“Very polished.”
“She wore pearls.”
My mother always wore pearls when she wanted people to take her seriously.
Even to the grocery store sometimes.
Teresa used to tease her about it.
Clara’s voice became distant.
“She had an accent.”
“What kind?”
“Italian, a little.”
My mother had come to New York at nineteen.
By sixty, most of the accent appeared only when she was tired, angry, or trying not to be either.
Clara looked between Paul and me.
“What?”
I could not say it immediately.
Paul did.
“The woman you met may have been Vincent’s mother.”
Clara stared at him.
Then at me.
“No.”
Her voice was barely there.
I understood Teresa’s reaction now.
No was not disagreement.
It was grief arriving before evidence had finished introducing itself.
Clara stood up.
“No.”
She backed away from the table.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
May you like
“It might.”
“Why would his mother pretend to be Margaret?”
