Chương 3
Claire smelled his hair.
Soap.
Milk.
Something warm and faintly sour beneath his chin.
Ordinary baby smells.
She pressed her face against the mint blanket.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Daniel frowned.
“For what?”
“I almost let—”
“You didn’t.”
“I don’t even know what I almost let happen.”
“That part can wait.”
Claire looked at him.
His tie was gone. The top button of his shirt was open. There was a dark streak near his cuff from the dining-room floor.
“Your mom hates me now.”
Daniel sat back.
“She doesn’t hate you.”
“I accused her of poisoning Owen in front of everybody.”
“You accused her of switching a bottle.”
“I said not to let her feed him.”
“You were barely conscious.”
“That’ll look great on the Christmas card.”
Daniel let out a short breath that could have become a laugh in another room on another night.
Claire smiled once and then began to cry.
Not dramatically.
No sound.
She simply looked down at Owen and tears slipped off her jaw onto the blanket.
Daniel touched the back of her neck.
Neither of them said anything.
At midnight, a detective named Marisol Vega came to Claire’s room.
She was in her early forties, wearing a dark blazer over a plain black shirt, and carried no visible urgency with her. That made Claire nervous.
Urgent people believed something had happened.
Calm people were still deciding.
Vega asked Daniel to take Owen into the hall for part of the interview.
Claire disliked that immediately.
“Why?”
“Because I want your recollection without anyone else’s.”
“My husband isn’t going to tell me what I saw.”
“I didn’t say he would.”
Claire stared at her.
Vega waited.
Daniel finally squeezed Claire’s shoulder and left.
The room felt larger without him.
Vega pulled the visitor chair closer.
“Walk me through the afternoon.”
Claire did.
Slowly.
She told Vega about arriving at Evelyn’s house shortly before two. About Owen sleeping through the first hour. About Daniel leaving at three-thirty for the airport because his return flight from a client trip had been delayed and he had originally expected to arrive before lunch.
“You went to Thanksgiving without your husband?”
“It’s his mother’s house.”
“That wasn’t judgment.”
“It sounded like it.”
Vega made a small note.
Claire exhaled.
“Sorry.”
“You don’t need to apologize. What happened after three-thirty?”
“People arrived.”
“Names?”
Claire listed them.
Daniel’s sister Rachel.
Uncle Peter and Aunt Susan.
Two cousins.
Evelyn’s neighbor Anne, who had been invited after her husband died in June.
A retired colleague of Evelyn’s named Martin.
“Anyone else?”
“No.”
“Any arguments?”
Claire paused.
“No.”
Vega watched her.
“What?”
“You paused.”
“I’m tired.”
“You paused before answering that question.”
Claire looked toward the closed door.
“There was no argument.”
“Was there a disagreement?”
Claire rubbed her thumb along the hospital blanket.
“I spoke to Rachel.”
“About what?”
“Family stuff.”
“What family stuff?”
“It has nothing to do with this.”
“Maybe.”
Claire looked up.
“Rachel didn’t poison me.”
“I didn’t say she did.”
“She’s Daniel’s sister.”
“That still doesn’t answer the question.”
Claire’s throat felt dry.
“Can I have water?”
Vega poured it from the plastic pitcher.
Claire drank.
The cup trembled against her lip.
Two weeks earlier, Evelyn had called Claire about a strange message from her bank.
She had been embarrassed before she even explained it.
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
“What did it say?”
“That my email address changed.”
“Did you change it?”
“No.”
“Then call the number on the back of your card.”
“Oh, Claire, I hate these things.”
“I know.”
“I used to balance Daniel’s father’s business books by hand.”
“I know.”
“Now a machine tells me I don’t know my own email address.”
Claire had driven over.
What began as a password reset became two hours at Evelyn’s kitchen table with printed statements, reading glasses, and increasingly long silences.
There were transfers.
Not huge ones individually.
Eight hundred dollars.
Twelve hundred.
Three thousand.
Then a payment Evelyn did not recognize for $7,400.
The money had gone to an account associated with Rachel.
Evelyn had stared at the statement.
“She handles some things for me.”
“Did you give her this?”
“I may have.”
“Do you remember?”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m ninety.”
Claire had leaned back.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Evelyn.”
“I said I may have authorized it.”
There had been more.
Enough that Claire finally stopped adding numbers.
Evelyn folded the statement in half.
Then in half again.
“Daniel doesn’t need to know.”
Claire had stared at her.
“Why?”
“Because I’m handling it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means Rachel and I will speak.”
“What if she says you gave her permission?”
“Then perhaps I did.”
“Did you?”
Evelyn’s mouth tightened.
Claire had seen the answer.
“No,” Claire said.
Evelyn looked toward the window.
A lawn service was blowing leaves from the curb across the street. The machine buzzed faintly through the glass.
After a while Evelyn said, “She’s had a bad year.”
“That doesn’t make your money hers.”
“I know that.”
“Do you?”
Evelyn had turned then.
The anger in her expression was sharp enough to make Claire regret the question.
“I buried my husband eighteen months ago, Claire. My daughter’s marriage is collapsing. My son calls me twice a week and thinks that means he knows what happens in this house. Please do not explain my family to me.”
Claire had stood.
She wanted to say she was part of that family.
She did not.
Evelyn caught her wrist before she could leave.
“Give me one week.”
“For what?”
“To talk to Rachel.”
“And if she lies?”
“One week.”
Claire had agreed.
The week became two.
Rachel avoided her.
Then, on Thanksgiving afternoon, Claire found her alone in the upstairs hallway outside Evelyn’s bedroom.
“You need to talk to your mother.”
Rachel had been carrying folded guest towels.
She stopped.
“What?”
“The bank transfers.”
Rachel’s expression barely changed.
That bothered Claire more than panic would have.
May you like
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
