Part 4
“I never saw that page.”
Helena said nothing.
Mara asked him, “Did your mother speak to you about leaving your father?”
“No.”
The answer arrived too fast.
Mara closed the folder.
“I need accurate answers, Mr. Vale. They do not have to be flattering.”
Noah’s face reddened. “She said things sometimes.”
“What things?”
“That she was unhappy. That she might stay with a friend. She never made a plan.”
“Did she call you the night she died?”
Helena turned toward him.
Noah looked at Mara, then at the paper cup on the floor beside his borrowed shoe.
“I was on a flight.”
“That was not my question.”
“Yes.”
“Did she leave a message?”
His silence changed the room.
Helena felt the hospital bed shift beneath her although she had not moved.
“Noah?”
He rubbed his thumb over a seam in the coffee lid.
“There was a voicemail,” he said.
Mara leaned back slightly. “What did it say?”
“I don’t remember exactly.”
“You have an approximate memory.”
“It was confused. She said she needed me to call her.”
“After the fall?”
“I didn’t know there had been a fall.”
“When did you listen to it?”
“The next morning.”
Helena stared at him. “You told me there was no message.”
“I told you there was nothing that explained what happened.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No.”
“Where is it?”
“I deleted it.”
The fluorescent lights hummed.
Mara asked, “When?”
“A few days after the funeral.”
“Why?”
Noah picked up the coffee and put it down again. “My father said it would make things worse.”
“For whom?”
Noah’s mouth moved, but he did not answer.
Helena slid off the bed. The floor was cold through her stockings. She collected her shoes from beneath the chair and put them on with one hand.
“Helena,” Noah said.
She did not look at him.
Mara stood. “Where are you going?”
“Somewhere else.”
“You shouldn’t be alone tonight.”
“I don’t want to be with him.”
Noah nodded before Mara could respond. His face had gone slack with shame.
“I’ll get a room,” he said. “You can take the apartment.”
“Our apartment has a hole in the dining-room ceiling.”
“Then I’ll find you a hotel.”
“I can find a hotel.”
“Your bag is still at the house.”
“I have my wallet.”
“Helena—”
She looked at him, and he stopped.
Mara helped arrange for an advocate from the hospital to speak with Helena about emergency lodging. Helena nearly refused out of embarrassment. She had enough money for several nights in a hotel, though much of it was tied up in repairs to the apartment. The advocate, a tired woman named Celeste, did not treat the decision as moral.
“You can pay if paying makes you feel more in control,” Celeste said. “You can also accept a room that exists for this exact reason.”
Helena accepted the room.
The hotel was beside an office park fifteen minutes from the hospital. The lobby smelled of lemon cleaner and old carpet. A refrigerated case offered yogurt for seven dollars. Helena bought one because it seemed important to make a normal decision with her own debit card.
In the elevator she noticed blood beneath the edge of her bandage.
She went into her room, locked the door, and checked it twice. Then she sat on the bed without removing her dress.
Her phone contained twelve missed calls from numbers she did not recognize, three from Edmund’s attorney, and one message from Noah.
I am not coming there. Mara has the address in case you need anything. I am going back to the guesthouse after I give my statement.
Helena read it twice.
She placed the phone facedown.
At four in the morning she turned on the television for noise. A local station showed archival footage of Edmund Vale leaving a courthouse years earlier. The caption beneath him said PROMINENT JUDGE QUESTIONED AFTER INCIDENT AT FAMILY HOME.
The reporter used the word allegation four times in less than a minute.
A photograph of Helena appeared beside Edmund’s. It had been taken at a museum fundraiser. She was smiling and holding a glass of sparkling water. The station identified her as an art consultant and the wife of Edmund’s only son.
No mention was made of Margaret.
Helena lowered the volume until the reporter’s mouth moved in silence.
She slept for forty-three minutes.
By nine, the story had changed.
Edmund had been released pending further review. His attorney issued a statement describing the bedroom confrontation as “a private family dispute arising from the unauthorized removal of sensitive estate materials.” The statement said Edmund had cooperated fully and looked forward to correcting “a deeply misleading account.”
No names appeared in quotation marks, but Helena’s name appeared everywhere else.
A short clip from the house’s interior security system began circulating before noon. It showed Helena entering Edmund’s bedroom and moving close to him. The camera had no audio. The angle obscured his hand around her wrist. From a distance, her left hand on his shoulder looked intimate.
The clip ended before the door opened.
Someone had chosen the eight seconds carefully.
Helena watched it once and felt sick. Then she watched it again because she needed to understand what other people would see.
Comments appeared below the video.
She was having an affair with her father-in-law.
She had staged an accusation after being rejected.
She was trying to steal from the estate.
She was mentally ill.
She was brave.
She was lying.
She was a gold digger, though Noah had earned less than she did during the first two years of their marriage.
At ten thirty, the director of the museum where Helena worked called. He spoke gently and took too long to reach the point.
“The Vale Foundation is a significant supporter of the preservation wing,” he said.
“I’m aware.”
“No one is asking us to take action.”
May you like
“Then why are you calling?”
“We think it would be sensible for you to work remotely until the facts are clearer.”
