Chương 8
Lillian looked at her.
“So were they.”
Claire wiped beneath one eye.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
Graham leaned against the wall.
For ten strange seconds, the confrontation loosened.
Then his phone vibrated.
He looked at the screen.
The moment ended.
Lillian’s face closed.
Graham silenced the phone without answering.
“Show me the device history,” he said.
“No.”
Claire’s hope collapsed almost comically fast.
Graham straightened.
“Then we’re done.”
Lillian’s eyes sharpened.
“What does that mean?”
“It means I believe Claire.”
Claire looked at him.
Lillian did not move.
“You believe the employee over your wife.”
“I believe the evidence I have.”
“You have no evidence.”
“I have a device that apparently requires pairing, your refusal to show whether it is paired, Claire’s description of seeing it yesterday, and the fact that you knew where it was today.”
“I did not.”
“Then why did you send her upstairs for her ID before accusing her?”
Lillian’s lips parted.
Claire held her breath.
Lillian looked toward the bench.
“I found the purse open.”
Claire frowned.
“What?”
“When you went upstairs.”
“That’s not true.”
“I found it open.”
“You zipped it after you put the recorder in.”
The sentence left Claire before she realized what she had said.
Graham turned toward her.
Lillian froze.
Claire felt her pulse jump.
Graham spoke carefully.
“You saw her zip it?”
Claire searched the memory.
Lillian at the bench.
Claire returning down the stairs.
The handbag in Lillian’s hands.
A silver flash.
A soft mechanical sound she had barely registered.
“Yes.”
Lillian shook her head immediately.
“No.”
Claire looked at her.
“You did.”
“No.”
“You zipped it.”
“You are making details up because he’s listening.”
“I’m not.”
“You didn’t say that before.”
“I forgot.”
“How convenient.”
Claire’s face burned.
Maybe she had forgotten.
Maybe she had heard a zipper earlier.
The certainty she had felt began to erode.
Graham saw it.
“Claire?”
“I think I saw her.”
“You think?”
Claire closed her eyes.
“I saw her hand at the zipper. I heard it.”
“When?”
“When I came down.”
Lillian gave a triumphant little shake of her head.
“Exactly.”
Claire looked at her.
“Exactly what?”
“You’re changing the story.”
“No.”
“You said you saw me put the recorder inside. Now you think you saw me zip the bag. What comes next?”
Claire’s anger became panic.
She hated how memory worked under pressure.
It had seemed clear until somebody demanded sequence and proof.
Now details floated loose.
Had Lillian zipped the bag before Graham entered or after?
Had the red light been visible yesterday or had Claire added it to the memory because she was staring at it now?
She knew she had seen something black.
She knew Lillian had put something into the handbag today.
Did she know it had been the recorder?
Yes.
She thought yes.
Lillian watched doubt move through her.
“That is why accusations require evidence.”
Claire looked down.
Graham did not rescue her.
Part of Claire appreciated that.
Part of her despised him for it.
He looked at the handbag again.
“Let’s find evidence.”
Lillian crossed her arms.
“How?”
“The recording itself.”
She went still.
Claire saw it.
Graham did too.
He turned toward her slowly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not nothing.”
“I don’t want some device she planted playing private audio in my foyer.”
“Private audio of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“If it isn’t yours, why are you worried?”
“Because it was in my purse.”
He stared at her.
Claire felt the argument circling toward something obvious.
The red light blinked.
Recording now.
If it had been recording before the accusation, the device might contain the moments before Graham arrived.
Including whatever happened while Claire was upstairs.
Graham understood at the same time.
“So we listen from the beginning of the current file.”
Lillian’s voice sharpened.
“No.”
Claire’s heartbeat climbed.
Graham looked at her.
“Why?”
“Because you are not entitled to recordings made without my consent.”
“We’re standing in our house.”
“That doesn’t answer the issue.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
He rubbed his jaw.
Claire was surprised by his hesitation.
She had expected him simply to take the device.
He did not.
He looked at Claire instead.
“If this became a formal dispute, we shouldn’t be handling anything more than necessary.”
Claire nodded.
She was grateful he said we.
Then he added, “And depending on where and how recordings were made, there could be legal issues I’m not qualified to guess about.”
Lillian looked at him.
“You finally remembered caution.”
“I’m trying.”
Claire stared at the recorder.
“What if it dies?”
Graham glanced at the red light.
“We photograph the condition and leave it.”
“In the purse?”
Lillian said immediately, “No.”
Claire almost smiled.
Graham looked at his wife.
“Where?”
Lillian did not answer.
The problem was strangely practical.
They did not have an evidence bag.
They had a forty-million-dollar house, according to a real estate article Claire had once accidentally found online, but no obvious place to put a two-inch recorder without somebody later arguing it had been touched.
“Kitchen container,” Claire said.
Both looked at her.
“A clear food container. New one. You can put the whole purse in it.”
Lillian stared.
“My handbag.”
Claire shrugged.
“You said you don’t want anyone touching the recorder.”
Graham’s mouth moved again.
Lillian pointed at him.
“Don’t smile.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Claire looked away.
Graham fetched a large clear storage bin from the kitchen himself.
Lillian objected to the size.
Graham told her that was not important.
She said it was an Italian handbag.
Claire said nothing.
Graham placed the entire purse into the bin without touching the recorder and closed the lid.
The red light continued blinking inside like an irritated little eye.
They put the bin on the bench.
The result looked so ridiculous that Claire felt the urge to photograph it.
She did not.
Graham turned to her.
“You should go home.”
The sentence hurt.
He saw that.
May you like
“That isn’t me firing you.”
“It’s also not you not firing me.”
