Chương 2
Then he walked away.
The rain was harder by the time they reached the parking garage.
Michael loaded the suitcases into the back of their SUV without speaking. The red one tipped sideways because of the damaged wheel. He set it upright, stared at it for a moment, then shut the hatch harder than necessary.
Sophie climbed into the back seat.
“Daddy?”
He turned.
“Yeah, Soph?”
“Grandma’s mad at us.”
Michael closed his eyes for half a second.
“I know.”
“Why?”
He looked at Claire.
Claire hated him for that look.
Not because it was accusatory.
Because it was helpless.
“We’re going to talk about it,” he said.
“Am I in trouble?”
“No.”
“Mom?”
“No, sweetheart.”
“Is Grandma?”
Neither answered.
Sophie considered this with the solemnity seven-year-olds reserved for information adults were obviously mishandling.
“Can I have my tablet?”
Claire handed it back.
Michael drove.
For twelve minutes, the only sound in the car was Sophie’s game and the windshield wipers.
Claire watched wet runway lights disappear behind concrete barriers. She had imagined relief after confronting Diane. Instead, her stomach felt hollow.
Michael finally said, “How long?”
Claire knew what he meant.
“Six months.”
His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
“You’ve known for six months?”
“I’ve suspected for six months.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No. I’ve had that document for eleven days.”
“And you didn’t tell me.”
“I was trying to verify it.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Sophie looked up from the tablet.
Claire lowered her voice. “Not with her in the car.”
Michael’s jaw moved.
He nodded once.
They drove the rest of the way home without speaking.
Their house in Wellesley looked exactly as they had left it three days earlier. Porch light on. Recycling bin crooked beside the garage. A package under the front awning that Michael had forgotten to ask the neighbor to collect.
Ordinary things offended Claire that night.
She wanted the house to acknowledge that something had happened.
Instead, the refrigerator hummed. A grocery-store coupon lay on the kitchen counter. One of Sophie’s socks was still under the breakfast table.
Michael carried the luggage upstairs.
Sophie followed Claire into the kitchen.
“Can I have cereal?”
“It’s almost ten.”
“I’m hungry.”
Claire opened the refrigerator.
There was half a container of yogurt, mustard, eggs, a shriveled lime, and milk that expired tomorrow.
“Cereal it is.”
Sophie sat at the island while Claire poured Cheerios into a bowl.
“Grandma shouldn’t kick things.”
“No.”
“You tell me not to kick things.”
“I do.”
“Is it different if you’re old?”
Despite everything, Claire almost smiled.
“No.”
“Okay.”
Sophie ate.
Michael came downstairs holding the envelope.
He waited until Sophie finished and went up to brush her teeth.
Then he placed it on the kitchen island.
“Open it.”
Claire didn’t.
“You brought it.”
“I know what’s in it.”
“I don’t.”
“Michael—”
“Open it.”
She did.
Inside were three sheets.
The first was a photocopy of Thomas Bennett’s death certificate.
Michael’s father had died fourteen months earlier at Massachusetts General Hospital after complications following what the family had been told was an unexpected cardiac event. Thomas had been seventy, active, irritatingly competitive, and incapable of allowing anyone else to grill a steak.
Michael touched the photocopy.
His father’s signature appeared in a box labeled INFORMANT SIGNATURE.
The date beside it was May 11.
Thomas Bennett had died on May 14.
Michael stared at the date.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
“Death certificates aren’t signed by the dead person.”
“Usually the funeral director or certifying physician handles the relevant portions. That’s one of the reasons I knew something was wrong.”
“Then it’s fake.”
“Maybe.”
“You said you verified it.”
“I said I was trying to.”
He looked at the second sheet.
It was a scan of a form from Bennett Holdings, the family real-estate company Thomas had founded thirty-eight years earlier.
Michael read silently.
His face changed.
The document transferred Thomas’s voting interest in a holding trust to Diane.
The signature looked identical.
Same slant.
Same unusual capital T.
Same date.
May 11.
“What is this?”
“I found the corporate filing first.”
“Where?”
“Your father’s study.”
Michael stared at her.
“You went through his study?”
“There was a leak.”
“What?”
“At the Weston house. Your mother asked me to meet the restoration company because she was in Palm Beach and you were in Chicago. The wall behind the built-in cabinet had water damage. They had to empty it.”
“And you went through Dad’s papers.”
“I moved boxes.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Claire folded her arms.
“No. I went through his papers.”
There it was.
Her ugly part.
Not noble investigation. Not maternal instinct. Curiosity mixed with years of resentment and a suspicion she had almost wanted confirmed.
Michael looked away.
“What made you suspicious?”
“A date.”
“What date?”
“May eleventh.”
He waited.
“Your father was with us that day.”
Michael frowned.
Claire could see him trying to place it.
Then he did.
Sophie’s school concert.
Thomas had arrived forty minutes early because he had misunderstood the email. He sat in a folding chair in the elementary-school gym and complained that the acoustics made every child sound like they were singing from the bottom of a swimming pool.
Afterward, they had gone for ice cream.
Thomas had gotten chocolate on his shirt.
Claire remembered Diane scolding him.
Michael remembered something else.
“He left early.”
“Yes.”
“Mom said he had a meeting.”
“He did.”
“With whom?”
“I don’t know.”
Michael picked up the third sheet.
It was a printout from a private document examiner Claire had hired.
Preliminary opinion. Significant indications of mechanical reproduction or traced signature. Original documents required for conclusive examination.
Michael read it twice.
“You hired someone?”
“Yes.”
“With what money?”
“Our money.”
“How much?”
“Eight hundred.”
He gave a short, disbelieving laugh.
Claire felt anger flare.
“Your mother threatened me tonight, Michael.”
“And you’ve been investigating my dead father for six months.”
“I’ve been investigating your mother.”
May you like
“Without telling me.”
“Because every time I have ever raised a concern about Diane, you tell me she’s difficult but means well.”
