Chương 7
Claire waited.
“The mortgage application for your parents lists North Orchard income as part of your father’s qualifying assets. It also includes a letter stating that the transfers were repayment of a family loan.”
“There was no family loan.”
“I assumed not.”
“Who signed the letter?”
“You and Dominic.”
Claire’s pulse climbed. “I didn’t.”
“The signature resembles yours.”
“Everything resembles mine now.”
“We will obtain the original file and metadata.”
“What happens to my parents?”
“The lender may deny the loan. If the documents were knowingly false, there could be further consequences. We do not know enough yet.”
“Can I withdraw the withdrawal?”
Naomi became very still. “Why are you asking?”
“My mother sold their house.”
“They have the rental.”
“Until the end of the month.”
“That does not make you responsible for guaranteeing a loan built on disputed information.”
“They’re my parents.”
“They are also adults represented by their own financial disclosures.”
Claire looked at the bruises along her wrist. “I don’t want them homeless.”
“They are purchasing a four-million-dollar property.”
“Homeless people can have expensive furniture.”
Naomi almost smiled, then decided against it. “Do not make a legal decision tonight.”
“You let me make one last night.”
“Last night you were removing your assets from immediate risk. Tonight you are considering restoring them because your father sent six words designed to make you feel responsible.”
Claire hated her for saying it so plainly.
“Sometimes you sound like Beth,” she said.
“I’m billing more.”
Claire let out a breath that hurt less than the day before. “Don’t restore anything.”
“I wasn’t going to without written instructions and a capacity check.”
“I have capacity.”
“Yes. You also have morphine.”
“It’s hydromorphone.”
“That distinction is why I’m not the medical professional.”
Claire’s father arrived the next morning.
He did not call first. He appeared at the security desk in the lobby and demanded to see his daughter. The nurse on Claire’s floor telephoned the room.
“Charles Mercer is downstairs,” she said. “He says it’s urgent.”
Claire’s ribs had been wrapped for movement, and a physical therapist had just helped her stand beside the bed. Her legs felt unreliable, as if they belonged to someone waking from anesthesia.
“Is my mother with him?”
“No.”
Claire looked at Beth, who had come to discuss discharge options, and at the therapist holding the gait belt around Claire’s waist.
“Let him up,” Claire said.
Beth did not object. “Do you want me present?”
“No.”
“Security can remain nearby.”
“No.”
Her father entered ten minutes later carrying a paper coffee cup and wearing the same navy suit from the phone call. His tie had changed. Tiny burgundy squares instead of black curves. He stopped when he saw Claire standing with the walker.
For one second his face broke.
Then he recovered.
“You look terrible,” he said.
The physical therapist glanced at Claire, perhaps waiting to see whether that counted as a reason to leave. Claire nodded, and the therapist helped her back into bed before stepping out.
Charles placed the coffee on the windowsill. “Your mother wanted to come.”
“Why didn’t she?”
“She’s upset.”
“So am I.”
“She hasn’t slept.”
Claire adjusted the blanket over her legs. The effort left her breathless.
Charles looked at the monitor, the IV pole, anything except the bruises around her neck. “Dominic told us you fell during an argument.”
“He choked me.”
“He says you scratched him.”
“I did.”
“Before or after?”
“While.”
Charles pressed his lips together. “This is exactly why people should not make accusations before facts are clear.”
Claire stared at him. “Were the marks clearer over video?”
His eyes flicked toward her throat and away.
“I’m not defending anyone,” he said.
“You told me to go home.”
“I was trying to stop you from destroying your life in a moment of panic.”
“You mentioned the house first.”
“Because you knew the closing was important.”
“More important than me?”
“That is childish.”
“Answer anyway.”
Charles walked to the window. On the parking garage roof, a maintenance worker in an orange vest pushed a wide broom through a puddle left by the night’s storm.
“Your mother and I have spent two years planning this move,” he said. “We sold the Winnetka house below asking because the buyer could close quickly. We paid nonrefundable deposits. We ordered work for the new property. Your mother designed every room.”
“You can stay in the rental.”
“For another twenty-two days.”
“Extend it.”
“The owners are returning from London.”
“Get another rental.”
“With what liquidity?”
There it was.
Claire leaned back against the pillow. “What happened to the Denver property?”
Charles turned. “There is no Denver property.”
“I know.”
“Dominic said we needed a clean explanation for the lender because my assets are temporarily tied up.”
“In what?”
Charles’s nostrils flared. “A private investment.”
“North Orchard?”
“That is a legitimate company.”
“What does it do?”
“It manages family capital.”
“It received money from my trust.”
“Money Dominic said was available for investment.”
“Did you ask me?”
“You gave Dominic authority over the joint accounts.”
“Not my trust.”
“He said the trust was distributing income through the marital account.”
“Did you ask me?”
Charles picked up the coffee, discovered he had not brought one for Claire, and set it down again. “We were trying to keep your mother from losing the house.”
“She doesn’t own it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No. I don’t know what anyone means anymore.”
Charles sat in the visitor chair. For the first time, he looked his age. The skin beneath his eyes had gone gray. He rubbed one palm over his knee, a habit Claire remembered from childhood whenever he had to tell her a dog was dead or a vacation was canceled.
“Eighteen months ago,” he said, “Dominic offered me an opportunity. Short-term bridge financing for a logistics acquisition. He said his firm could not participate directly because of internal restrictions, but we could do it privately.”
“How much?”
“Initially, three hundred thousand.”
“Your money?”
May you like
“Ours.”
“Yours and Mom’s?”
