Part 15
Camille looked toward the bookshelf. Marc’s photograph stood between two story collections, his face turned slightly away from the camera because he had been laughing at something outside the frame.
“The foundation said he approved transfers he should not have approved,” she said.
“That means yes?”
“It means his name was on papers.”
“Did you believe them?”
Camille smoothed the blanket, once, then again.
“I did not know what to believe.”
“You told me Daddy was good.”
“He was good to us.”
“That is not the same.”
No, it was not.
Camille had once asked Marc why children seemed to locate every weak place in an adult’s answer. He had said it was because they had not yet learned to pretend the walls were solid.
“I loved your father,” she said. “He made mistakes. I may not know all of them yet.”
Lila turned her face toward the pillow. “Mrs. Vane said you paid because you were ashamed.”
Camille’s chest tightened.
After Marc died, the foundation’s auditors had identified a $640,000 deficit in an education fund bearing the D’Arcy name. Odette had arrived at the townhouse with condolences, documents, and a proposal. If Camille replaced the money privately, the foundation would treat the matter as an accounting irregularity and avoid public accusations against Marc.
Camille had signed the check within forty-eight hours.
She told herself she was protecting scholarship students from a frozen program. She told herself she was protecting Lila. She did not tell herself the ugliest truth: she could not bear the thought of strangers searching Marc’s life and deciding which parts of him deserved to survive.
“Yes,” she said. “I paid money to the foundation.”
“Because Daddy stole it?”
“I paid before I knew exactly what happened.”
“Why?”
“Because I was afraid.”
Lila looked back at her.
Camille had never admitted fear to her daughter. She saw the child rearrange something internally to make space for it.
“Were you afraid like me?”
“Yes.”
“Did someone grab you?”
“No. They did not have to.”
Lila considered that, then reached for Camille’s hand. Her fingers were cold.
“Can I sleep in your room?”
Camille brought her there.
They lay beneath Marc’s side of the blanket because Lila chose it, though the mattress no longer remembered his weight. For an hour, the child shifted every time headlights moved across the ceiling. Camille listened to her breathing lengthen.
At 2:17 in the morning, Camille’s phone displayed thirty-eight missed calls.
Her attorney had called six times. The foundation’s board secretary had called twice. Three friends had sent messages saying they loved her without asking what had happened. Seven others asked what had happened without saying they loved her.
A former cabinet secretary wrote, You must get ahead of this.
Camille turned the phone facedown.
In the dark, Lila murmured, “Mommy?”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t hit anybody else.”
“I won’t.”
Camille remained awake until dawn, staring at the place where the ceiling met the wall.
Her attorney arrived at eight carrying coffee, a legal pad, and the exhausted irritation of someone whose client had created a problem in front of cameras.
Mara Klein was forty-six, small, blunt, and immune to the atmosphere of expensive rooms. She set her coat on a chair without asking and took one look at Camille’s untouched breakfast.
“Drink the coffee.”
“I don’t want it.”
“Then hold it. You need to look like a person who has hands.”
Camille wrapped both palms around the paper cup.
Mara sat across from her in the breakfast room. Outside, a gardener employed by the neighborhood association was removing a dead branch from a tree with a quiet electric saw. The ordinary sound made the morning feel indecent.
“Odette filed a complaint,” Mara said. “There is excellent video of you striking her.”
“I am aware.”
“There is no useful video of what happened to Lila.”
“There is a recording.”
“There may be a recording. Police have not authenticated it. We have not heard it. Odette’s lawyer will argue it was altered, misunderstood, provoked, illegally obtained, or all four.”
“Lila pressed the button herself.”
“She is seven.”
“She was part of the conversation.”
“I am not debating you. I am explaining how other people will debate you.”
Camille stared into the coffee.
Mara opened her legal pad. “The foundation has placed both you and Odette on temporary leave from board duties.”
“Both?”
“They are pretending balance is integrity.”
“Julian signed the statement.”
“Yes.”
“He was there when Odette grabbed Lila.”
“Then he is either a witness or a problem.”
“He lied to the detective about where he was.”
“People at galas lie about where they are for reasons ranging from adultery to bad canapés. We need more than your instinct.”
Camille put the coffee down.
Mara watched her. “Do not call him.”
“I had not said I would.”
“You moved your phone closer.”
Camille pushed it away.
Mara turned a page. “Now the difficult part. Did Marc authorize transfers from restricted education funds?”
“I don’t know.”
“You paid six hundred forty thousand dollars.”
“I paid to keep the program operating.”
“You paid after Odette told you his signature appeared on transfer documents.”
“Yes.”
“Did you hire your own forensic accountant?”
“No.”
Mara stopped writing.
Camille looked toward the window. “He had been dead three weeks.”
“That is an explanation.”
“I did not say it was a defense.”
“Good. Because this morning the board’s counsel sent a preservation notice covering your devices, Marc’s records, personal correspondence, and financial documents connected to the foundation.”
The coffee had cooled between them.
“Odette knew this would happen,” Camille said.
“Odette may have wanted you afraid of it.”
“She told Lila I knew.”
“And you knew enough to write a check.”
Camille looked at her sharply.
Mara did not look away. “I am your attorney. I am not your choir.”
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked. Both women glanced toward the ceiling.
May you like
Mara lowered her voice. “How much did Lila hear?”
“She said Odette told Julian that Marc never approved the second transfer. Odette said dead men do not argue about dates.”
