Part 3
Veronica’s face tightened.
There it was, Daniel thought. Not madness. Not yet. Injury with a destination.
She had arrived at Marrow House three years before Howard’s death, first as a consultant for the philanthropic foundation he ran from the east wing, then as a companion no one was permitted to name honestly. She attended dinners in silk dresses and reviewed grant proposals barefoot at the breakfast table. Howard, seventy-one and recently widowed, insisted their relationship was irrelevant to the staff.
Veronica insisted the same thing until it became relevant to the will.
Daniel had disliked her before he had reasons. He could admit that now, though only privately. She had occupied rooms too quickly. She opened wine without asking and moved books from one shelf to another according to a private logic. She called Howard “H” in front of employees. She spoke to Daniel as though his fifteen years managing the estate were a prolonged clerical error.
Then Howard became ill, and Veronica stayed.
She learned the medications, slept in the chair beside his bed, argued with nurses on the telephone, and persuaded him to eat half a piece of toast when Daniel could not make him take water. Whatever else she had been, she had not been absent.
That made the paper in Daniel’s hand harder to hold.
“I want Claire’s phone,” he said.
“It’s in the bottom drawer of your desk,” Veronica said.
Daniel did not look at her. “Why?”
“So she couldn’t call you.”
Claire’s voice was flat. “I put it there.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d make this about rescuing me.”
“You were hiding behind an island while someone held a candlestick over you.”
“She didn’t hit me with it.”
“She scratched you.”
“I did that on the cabinet.”
Ruth looked at Claire’s hairline.
“I pulled her down when Miss Hale picked up the candlestick,” she said. “Claire struck the drawer handle.”
Daniel faced Ruth. “You told me nothing was happening here.”
“When?”
“This morning. I called before I left Milwaukee.”
“You asked whether everything was quiet.”
“And?”
“It was quiet at that moment.”
Daniel laughed once, unable to stop himself. It sounded ugly in the kitchen.
Veronica watched him. “That’s the thing about this house. Every answer is technically true.”
Daniel went to the counter and picked up the flare launcher. The barrel remained open, the spent casing visible. He closed it, placed it in the upper cabinet above the refrigerator, and removed the cabinet key.
“Ruth, sit with her.”
Ruth’s eyebrows rose.
“With me?” Veronica asked.
“Ruth, if she moves toward a drawer, a door, a heavy object, or anything that burns, tell me.”
“And what exactly am I meant to do after I tell you?”
“Nothing.”
“At last,” Veronica said. “A plan worthy of the estate director.”
Daniel ignored her.
He went into the living room for his phone, though he already knew it would not work. The screen had shattered at one corner. He pressed the power button until a pale green line appeared and vanished. On the rug beside it lay his overnight bag, still zipped. He had dropped it when he heard the cry.
The glass doors stood open behind him.
Through them he could see the kitchen: Claire near the fireplace, Ruth on a stool, Veronica seated again with her hands visible. They looked like people arranged for a photograph no one would want.
Daniel picked up his bag and carried it to the console table. His laptop was inside. He opened it, pressed the power button, and watched the screen brighten.
The wireless network showed no connection.
“Router’s out,” he called.
No one answered.
He took the laptop to the kitchen.
“The security panel has a cellular backup,” he said. “I can trigger an emergency call from there.”
“It was flashing earlier,” Ruth said.
“Where?”
“The utility hall.”
Daniel crossed the kitchen. The security panel beside the laundry room glowed red. SYSTEM FAULT. CELLULAR MODULE OFFLINE.
He entered the service code. The fault report showed a loss of external signal at 3:12 that afternoon.
He checked the modem in the cabinet below. Its power cord was unplugged.
Daniel stared at it.
Claire appeared at the end of the hall.
“I didn’t do that.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“You looked like you were going to.”
“Go back to the kitchen.”
“Dad.”
“Go back.”
She remained where she was.
The utility hall was narrow and lined with framed photographs of the house before Howard renovated it. In one, taken sometime in the nineteen-fifties, the kitchen had dark wood cabinets and a linoleum floor. Men in rolled sleeves stood where the marble island now stood. None of them looked happy to be photographed.
Daniel plugged in the modem. Lights blinked across its face.
“Did Veronica unplug it?” Claire asked.
“I don’t know.”
“She did.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw her come out of here.”
“Before or after you hid your phone?”
Claire’s mouth pressed into a line.
Daniel waited for the router to reconnect. Nothing happened. He opened the lower panel and found the external cable cut cleanly through.
He looked back at his daughter.
“Did you see her with a knife?”
“No.”
“Scissors?”
“No.”
“Then you don’t know.”
“You’re defending her now?”
“I’m trying to understand what happened.”
“You could try asking me.”
“I have been asking you since I walked into the kitchen.”
“You’ve been ordering me.”
Daniel closed the cabinet harder than necessary.
Claire flinched.
The movement lasted less than a second. She recovered so quickly that he might have missed it if he had been anyone else.
He lowered his voice.
“Start from the beginning.”
She glanced toward the kitchen. “Not in front of her.”
“Fine.”
“Not in front of Ruth either.”
The request carried its own information.
Daniel looked toward the kitchen. Ruth sat rigidly, her hands folded in her lap. Veronica watched the hall with the alert patience of someone who understood that secrets were moving without her.
May you like
“Living room,” Daniel said.
He walked there first, leaving Claire to choose whether to follow.
