Chương 7
Afterward the social worker said Ruth showed no obvious signs of moderate or severe impairment but needed a full neuropsychological assessment. Pain, dehydration, medication, trauma, and fatigue could affect performance.
“So she has capacity?” Elena asked.
“That is not a yes-or-no conclusion I can give you in a hallway.”
“Can she decide where to go?”
“At this moment, yes.”
Ruth decided she would not go to Elena’s condo.
“I have one guest room,” Elena said. “It’s quiet. The building has security.”
“It smells like paint.”
“It was painted eight months ago.”
“It still smells.”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Home.”
“You can’t.”
“It is my house.”
“It’s a crime scene.”
“Then they can finish.”
Nia sat beside Ruth and asked what home meant to her. Ruth said her own bed, her garden, her kitchen, her blue chair, the small dent in the hallway wall where Samuel had dropped a bookcase in 1998 and refused to repair it because no one else could see it.
Elena said Julian knew the alarm code, had keys, and might be released.
Nia said those were practical problems, not automatic reasons to override Ruth.
A compromise emerged slowly. Ruth would go to a confidential elder-protection residence for seventy-two hours, then reassess. Elena could visit but would not control access. The facility would store medications and coordinate medical follow-up.
Ruth disliked every part of the plan.
She accepted it because the alternative was Elena’s condo.
At 9:30, Elena drove home alone.
Her condo occupied the twelfth floor of a converted bank building downtown. The rooms were clean, quiet, and almost untouched by other people. A bowl on the kitchen counter contained three lemons she kept forgetting to use. Mail lay in a precise stack beside the toaster.
She removed her cardigan and found a smear of her mother’s blood on the sleeve.
For several minutes she stood beside the washing machine holding it.
Then she placed it in a paper bag instead.
She showered until the water cooled. Bruises from kneeling on glass had begun to color both knees. She put on a robe and sat at the edge of her bed without drying her hair.
Her home phone rang.
Only three people knew the number.
She answered.
A woman said, “Ms. Vance, this is Lauren Pike with Channel Eight. I’m calling about allegations that you used your public office to influence a domestic arrest involving your brother.”
Elena hung up.
The phone rang again.
She unplugged it.
When she finally slept, she dreamed of the bathroom door handle turning without end.
She woke at 2:17 p.m. to someone knocking.
Martin stood outside with her work laptop in a sealed bag.
“You can’t access the office network during the screen,” he said.
“I know.”
“I came for the state-issued phone.”
“It’s in evidence.”
“Of course it is.”
He entered without being invited, looked around, and opened her refrigerator.
“You have mustard, olives, and one yogurt that expired in June.”
“I eat at work.”
“You are not at work.”
He closed the refrigerator. “The independent prosecutor is Dana Mercer from Alder County.”
Elena knew the name. Mercer had a reputation for refusing cases that relied on sympathy without corroboration.
“Good,” Elena said.
“Maybe.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she will treat your mother like a witness, not a symbol.”
“That is good.”
“It won’t always feel good.”
Martin set a folder on the counter. Inside were printouts from the department’s communications office. Online comments multiplied beneath a news story titled TOP PROSECUTOR’S BROTHER ARRESTED IN FAMILY ESTATE BATTLE.
Some called Elena courageous.
Others accused her of using police to seize an inheritance.
One anonymous account posted a photograph of Ruth entering a memory clinic the previous year.
Elena stared at it. “What is this?”
“I don’t know.”
“She went to a memory clinic?”
“Apparently.”
“She never told me.”
Martin watched her face. “Do not investigate.”
“I can ask my mother.”
“You can be her daughter. You cannot cross-examine her about evidence.”
“She lied by omission.”
“She was not under oath during Sunday phone calls.”
Elena pushed the papers away.
The anonymous account had a profile image of a flag and no name. Its posts accused Elena of corruption, elitism, and abandoning her family. One contained a detail not in any public report: Ruth’s home equity loan.
Julian had told someone.
Or Chloe had.
“Where are they now?” Elena asked.
“Julian was held after the assault on the deputy. Chloe was released on bond with electronic monitoring and a no-contact order.”
“Where is she staying?”
Martin’s mouth tightened.
“What?”
“With her sister, according to public booking information.”
“Where does her sister live?”
“Elena.”
“I know. Don’t investigate.”
He nodded.
She hated the phrase because it turned helplessness into an ethical duty.
Martin ordered food. They ate noodles from cardboard cartons at the kitchen counter. He complained that the restaurant had stopped including fortune cookies. Elena told him fortune cookies were not Chinese. He said neither was orange chicken, but that did not mean he wanted to live without it.
The conversation was pointless and briefly lifesaving.
At five, Nia called from the residence.
Ruth wanted Elena to bring clothes, reading glasses, and the blue cashmere blanket from home.
“The house is still sealed,” Elena said.
“There’s a supervised property retrieval at six,” Nia replied. “Mrs. Vance can authorize you to collect personal items.”
Elena drove to Hawthorne Ridge under a gray evening sky. News vans waited at the end of the street. She kept her eyes forward.
Deputy Vega met her at the front door. Yellow evidence tape crossed the office and primary bedroom. The house smelled faintly of wet ash from the fireplace.
“Ten minutes,” Vega said. “Only listed items.”
Elena signed the property sheet.
In Ruth’s closet, clothes hung by color. Beige, blue, cream, gray. Elena selected soft pants, nightgowns, undergarments, a navy cardigan, and flat shoes.
May you like
The blue cashmere blanket lay folded on the bed.
When Elena lifted it, a small black notebook fell to the floor.
