Part 8
That quieted the room.
Julian’s footsteps sounded overhead. A drawer opened. Something thudded. Cassandra flinched.
Beatrice heard it. “What was that?”
“He’s upstairs.”
“Stay where you are.”
Cassandra did.
She thought of all the times she had moved toward Julian’s anger to manage it before it grew. A door slam, a dropped object, a rough drawer, and she would appear with apology or reason or calm, offering herself as weatherbreak. Tonight she stayed on the sofa while the sounds continued above her. Drawer. Footstep. Another thud. Silence.
Her body wanted to go.
Her body did not yet understand that obedience had expired.
Beatrice returned after a brief hold. “Miriam is contacting the trust office and sending a written notice tonight. Julian’s operational authority over the property will be suspended pending review in the morning.”
Cassandra stared at the chandelier reflected on the floor. “Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“He said you couldn’t.”
“Yes.”
The simplicity of that answer made Cassandra realize how much of her life had been governed by things Julian said.
“He also told me you were confused,” Cassandra said.
“I am confused by modern thermostats and nothing else of consequence.”
Cassandra laughed, then winced.
Beatrice said, “Do not make me amusing if it hurts your face.”
The laughter became crying again, smaller this time.
Julian came back twenty minutes later with a leather overnight bag in one hand.
He paused at the entrance to the lounge and looked at Cassandra on the sofa, phone still in hand. His expression was composed again, almost. He had put on an overcoat. Of course he had. He would not leave his own humiliation without dressing for it.
“Enjoy your little victory,” he said.
Cassandra did not answer.
Beatrice’s voice came from the speaker. “The car service account has been frozen. Use your personal card.”
Julian’s face changed with such sudden rage that Cassandra’s hand tightened around the phone.
Then he laughed. “Petty.”
“No,” Beatrice said. “Precise.”
He looked at Cassandra. “You’re going to regret letting her do this.”
Cassandra kept her eyes on him.
“I regret many things,” she said. “This isn’t one of them yet.”
His mouth tightened.
For once, he had no audience to reward the last word. No Vanessa smiling. No staff looking down. No guests to charm. Only Cassandra, bruised and seated, and his mother’s voice through a black phone.
He left.
The front door closed somewhere deep in the house.
The sound did not make Cassandra feel free.
It made her feel suspended.
Beatrice waited a full minute before speaking. “Is he gone?”
“I think so.”
“Check from where you are. Do not go to the door.”
Cassandra opened the security app on her phone with Beatrice still on speaker. Her access still worked. Julian had been careless there, or perhaps overconfident. The driveway camera showed his car pulling away from the front of the mansion, red taillights shrinking along the dark curve of the drive.
“He’s gone.”
“Good.”
Cassandra set the phone in her lap and stared at the abandoned champagne flute. A thin line of bubbles still rose inside it. Vanessa had left so quickly she forgot her little performance prop. Cassandra imagined picking it up and throwing it into the fireplace. Instead she left it. Some objects were more useful as they were.
Beatrice said, “You need photographs.”
Cassandra shut her eyes. “I know.”
“And medical documentation.”
“I know.”
“And your lawyer.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No.” Cassandra opened her eyes. “No, I need someone to say the next steps.”
Beatrice’s voice softened by a fraction. “Then here they are. You will photograph your face and shoulder in good light. You will write down what happened while your memory is fresh. You will save the call log. You will not delete anything. You will sleep in a room that locks. In the morning, Miriam and your attorney will speak. You will not sign anything Julian gave you. You will not let shame make decisions.”
Cassandra looked at the folder still on the low table. The papers inside waited with all their elegant traps.
“What if I already made too many decisions out of shame?”
“Then tomorrow you begin making fewer.”
It was not comfort. It was better.
The next hour moved with ugly practicality. Cassandra photographed her face in the bathroom mirror under bright lights that made every mark look both worse and less dramatic than it felt. The bruise near her eye had deepened. Her cheek was swollen. The lip injury was small, almost insulting. She photographed the shoulder where she had struck the floor. She photographed the phone call log. The folder on the table. The champagne flute. The place on the marble where one of her earrings had fallen loose. She wrote down the sequence, leaving blanks where memory blurred instead of filling them with guesses.
Beatrice remained on the line until Cassandra reached the guest room at the far end of the second floor, the one with a lock Julian disliked because it belonged to the older wing.
“Lock it,” Beatrice said.
Cassandra did.
“Place a chair if it helps you sleep.”
“There’s a chair.”
“Use it.”
Cassandra dragged the chair under the handle and felt both foolish and safer.
Only then did Beatrice say, “You may hang up now if you wish.”
Cassandra sat on the edge of the bed. The room was dark except for one lamp. Her gown was still twisted around her legs. The necklace remained on because she had never managed the clasp.
“I don’t want to be alone yet,” she said.
“Then don’t hang up.”
They stayed that way for a long time.
At some point, Cassandra heard ice clink faintly through the speaker. Beatrice was drinking something. Perhaps water. Perhaps scotch. She did not ask.
“Did he hurt you?” Cassandra said finally.
Beatrice did not pretend not to understand.
“His father?”
“Yes.”
“No. Not with his hands.”
Cassandra waited.
May you like
Beatrice said, “He preferred contracts.”
That answer settled over the room like dust disturbed from old curtains.
