Chương 7
But Claire was not insulting Daniel. She was describing something true about the living.
Ethan picked up his phone.
“There was another text.”
He read it aloud.
“This is worse than you understand.”
Claire looked at the figures on the pad.
“I believe that part.”
By afternoon, they knew more.
Not enough.
Never enough.
Their CPA, Leonard Shaw, logged into the company books remotely and told Ethan not to draw conclusions until they reviewed supporting records. He also told him Northline appeared to have been paid $183,400 over eighteen months.
Ethan sat on the back steps while Leonard spoke.
The August heat pressed against the yard.
Somebody two houses over ran a lawn mower.
The normal sound made Ethan want to throw his phone into the grass.
“How did nobody catch this?”
Leonard paused.
“The payments were coded across several active projects. The amounts weren’t all round. Documentation exists for most.”
“Fake documentation?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Could it be real?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think it is?”
“I think we verify.”
Ethan stared at the fence.
“You sound like a cop.”
“That’s because everybody wants certainty before there’s enough information.”
“Can we make payroll Friday?”
Another pause.
“That depends on whether funds were diverted beyond what we’re seeing.”
Ethan’s stomach tightened.
“How much cash is in operating?”
Leonard told him.
Less than Ethan expected.
Not disaster.
Not comfortable.
“If I put personal money in?”
“Talk to counsel first.”
“Why does everybody keep telling me not to do anything?”
“Because you’re angry.”
“I can be angry and count.”
“I know.”
Leonard had been their accountant since Ethan was twenty-one.
He added, “Your father could too. Anger still made him expensive.”
Ethan almost smiled.
Almost.
Inside, Claire had fallen asleep at the kitchen table.
Her cheek rested on her forearm beside the legal pad.
Owen had placed a blanket over her shoulders.
He sat on the floor nearby building a crooked tower from plastic blocks.
Ethan stood in the doorway.
Owen put a finger to his lips.
Ethan nodded.
For twenty minutes, he did nothing.
No bank statements.
No calls.
No police questions.
He sat on the floor and helped his son make the tower taller.
At one point Owen whispered, “This one’s a jail.”
Ethan looked at the blue block in his hand.
“Can we make it a fire station?”
Owen considered.
“No.”
“Okay.”
They built the jail.
Margaret came to the house the next afternoon.
She did not knock on the door.
She remained on the sidewalk.
Ethan saw her through the front window.
Claire was upstairs resting.
Owen was with Claire’s sister for the day.
Margaret wore the same black pants from the night before and a pale gray sweater despite the heat.
Ethan stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
His mother’s first words were, “Is Claire here?”
“Yes.”
“I need to speak to both of you.”
“No.”
Margaret’s mouth tightened.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know there’s a no-contact condition involving Claire.”
“That does not prevent me from speaking to my son.”
“Then speak.”
She glanced toward the neighboring houses.
“Not on the sidewalk.”
“Yes, on the sidewalk.”
Her face reddened.
“You’re enjoying humiliating me.”
That stunned him.
“What?”
“You have always done this. You get angry, and suddenly everybody has to stand inside your anger.”
Ethan stared at her.
He almost asked whether she heard herself.
Instead he said, “You put pills in Claire’s mouth.”
Margaret looked down the street.
“I was trying to stop the situation from escalating.”
“With prescription medication?”
“She was screaming.”
“Ryan hit her.”
“She hit him too.”
“He had her phone.”
“She was threatening to destroy everything your father built.”
“There it is.”
Margaret blinked.
“What?”
“Dad.”
Her jaw hardened.
“This is not funny.”
“I’m not laughing.”
“He spent thirty years building that company.”
“So Ryan gets to steal from it?”
“You don’t know what happened.”
“Then tell me.”
Margaret looked toward the house.
“No.”
Ethan almost admired the reflex.
Even now she wanted the room, the door, the controlled setting.
He folded his arms.
“Tell me here.”
She lowered her voice.
“Northline isn’t what Claire thinks.”
“What is it?”
“A vendor.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It provided services.”
“What services?”
Margaret hesitated.
Ethan saw it.
“You don’t know.”
“I know enough.”
“No. You know enough to be scared.”
Her eyes flashed.
“Ryan was trying to keep this company alive while you were off doing what you liked.”
Ethan stared.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your father got sick. Ryan handled everything.”
“I handled jobs.”
“You handled the part you enjoyed.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither was pancreatic cancer.”
The word still had power.
Three years later, it could still reduce Ethan to the smell of antiseptic and old coffee in the hospice room.
Margaret knew that.
Maybe she did not deploy it consciously.
Maybe that made it worse.
“Ryan managed payroll,” she continued. “Insurance. Taxes. Vendors. Your father trusted him.”
“And?”
“And mistakes were made.”
“What mistakes?”
She looked away.
“Your father took on projects he shouldn’t have.”
Ethan frowned.
“Which projects?”
“The Broad Street conversion.”
“That made money.”
“Eventually.”
Margaret rubbed two fingers against her thumb.
A nervous habit Ethan had seen all his life and only now recognized as one.
“We had cash problems.”
“We?”
“The company.”
“You didn’t work for the company.”
“I was married to the man who owned it.”
“That doesn’t answer why Ryan sent money to Northline.”
Margaret’s face changed.
“Ryan didn’t send all of it.”
Ethan went still.
A car passed.
Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.
“Who did?”
Margaret did not answer.
“Mom.”
She closed her eyes.
“Your father.”
Ethan stared at her.
“That’s impossible.”
“It started before he died.”
“Northline was formed eighteen months ago.”
Margaret’s eyes opened.
There.
A mistake.
Small.
But undeniable.
Ethan felt cold despite the heat.
“I didn’t tell you when it was formed.”
His mother said nothing.
“How do you know?”
She stepped backward.
May you like
“Ethan.”
“How do you know when Northline was formed?”
