Chương 4
Celeste had been asleep in the chair with her cheek against the mattress. The movement woke her.
“Oliver?”
He looked at her for several seconds, slow and unfocused.
“Your dress is wrinkled,” he said.
Celeste covered her mouth. A sound escaped her that was too small to be a laugh and too relieved to be anything else.
“I know.”
“You said satin does that.”
“I did.”
“Can you fix my sock?”
She pulled it off, turned it, and eased it back onto his foot. Her hands shook. She hid them beneath the blanket when she finished.
Oliver stared at the ceiling. “Why am I here?”
“You fell at the gala.”
“I didn’t fall.”
“You were on the floor.”
“My legs stopped.”
Celeste leaned closer. “Do you remember anything before that?”
The doctor had warned her not to ask leading questions. Elena Ruiz had repeated it more firmly. Let him speak. Do not introduce names. Do not reward particular answers. Do not turn his memory into a tool because she needed one.
Oliver rubbed his tongue against his front teeth.
“The apple drink tasted wrong.”
“Wrong how?”
“Like when a pill breaks.”
Celeste kept her face still.
“Who gave it to you?”
He closed his eyes again.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s all right.”
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“I left the glass on the floor.”
“No one cares about the glass.”
“Mr. Reed cares about the glasses. He said they cost thirty-two dollars each.”
“That was a joke.”
“He didn’t smile.”
“He makes very anxious jokes.”
Oliver opened one eye. “You make those too.”
Celeste brushed his hair from his forehead. It had lost the neat comb lines from the gala and stood up at the crown.
“Did anyone tell you to drink it?” she asked.
His face tightened.
She stopped. “You don’t have to answer.”
“Grandmother said it was rude to waste things.”
The pulse monitor continued its soft rhythm.
Celeste looked down at his hand.
“Was Grandmother with you?”
“I don’t know.” He turned his face toward the window. Dawn had begun to flatten the city into gray shapes. “There were lots of people.”
A detective and a child interview specialist spoke with Oliver later that morning. Celeste was not allowed in the room. She sat outside with Elena and listened to a vending machine hum.
Beatrice sent three messages.
Malcolm can arrange a statement.
The board vote must be postponed carefully.
Please do not allow police to frighten Oliver.
Celeste read the messages twice, then turned her phone face down.
Elena drank coffee from a paper cup and folded the cardboard sleeve along its seam.
“You can be angry,” she said.
“I’m not angry.”
“You’ve been pressing your thumb into your palm for six minutes.”
Celeste looked at the crescent marks beneath her skin.
“I’m trying not to make him remember what I need him to remember.”
“That’s good.”
“It feels like doing nothing.”
“Sometimes doing nothing to a child’s memory is the most protective thing available.”
Celeste watched a custodian drag a trash bag from one end of the corridor to the other. The bag caught on a wheel beneath an empty stretcher. He stopped, freed it, and continued.
“Do you think I gave it to him?” she asked.
Elena did not rush to deny it.
“I think someone placed a prescription bottle with your name in your bag. I think your son had a substance in his system. I think those facts require questions.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Celeste turned toward her. “Do you?”
“I don’t know you.”
The answer hurt less than reassurance would have.
At eleven, Malcolm Pike arrived with a charcoal suit, a burgundy tie, and the expression of a man disappointed by everyone else’s failure to prevent a crisis. He had represented the Marlowe family for twenty-six years. He had handled Graham’s will, three foundation investigations, one cousin’s divorce, and a newspaper story about Beatrice’s use of charity aircraft.
He sat beside Celeste without asking.
“The preliminary public narrative is unstable,” he said.
“My son woke up.”
“I heard. That is excellent.”
“You don’t sound as if you heard.”
Malcolm adjusted one cuff. “The hospital has confirmed no permanent injury?”
“They haven’t confirmed anything permanent or temporary.”
“We should prepare for both.”
“No.”
“Celeste, there is video from guests. The collapse is already online.”
She had known it would be. Still, her stomach tightened.
“What are people saying?”
“Nothing reliable.”
“What are they saying?”
“That Oliver may have been medicated. That you appeared composed. That Beatrice appeared distant. That the gala continued for several minutes after the ambulance left, which is untrue. That the foundation used the incident to solicit donations, also untrue.”
“Anything about the bottle?”
“Not yet.”
“Then how do they know he was medicated?”
Malcolm looked at her.
“Someone leaked it.”
“We don’t know that.”
“A person outside the hospital knew.”
“Medical information travels in ways families rarely control.”
“Which is a polished way to say someone leaked it.”
He leaned forward. “The old prescription complicates matters. You should not speak publicly or privately without counsel.”
“I’m speaking to you.”
“I am counsel.”
“You are Beatrice’s counsel.”
“I represent the foundation and several family entities.”
“Not me.”
“I represented you during probate.”
“You represented Graham’s estate.”
Malcolm exhaled through his nose. “This is not the hour for distinctions.”
“It is exactly the hour.”
He removed a folder from his briefcase.
“The board was scheduled to vote tomorrow on the Harbor Parcel disposition. That vote cannot proceed while your authority as Oliver’s proxy is under question.”
“My authority is not under question.”
“It will be.”
“Because my child was drugged?”
“Because a controlled prescription bearing your name was found in your possession after he ingested a similar substance.”
Celeste stared at him.
May you like
Malcolm opened the folder. “A temporary delegation would reduce immediate pressure. Beatrice would vote the shares for thirty days while you focus on Oliver.”
There it was. Not hidden behind concern, because the Marlowes considered bluntness a form of honesty when they were the ones delivering it.
