Chương 9
“No.”
Claire nodded.
Lillian walked toward the stairs.
At the first step, she stopped.
Without turning, she said, “Six months.”
Claire looked at her back.
“What?”
“The offer remains.”
Graham said, “Lillian.”
She ignored him.
Claire thought of tuition again.
Her father.
Rent.
Then she looked at the clear plastic bin and the expensive handbag trapped inside it.
“No.”
Lillian climbed the stairs.
Her heels clicked across the stone and then softened on the runner above.
Graham and Claire remained in the foyer.
Claire picked up her tote.
“What happens now?”
“I don’t know.”
She believed him.
That frightened her more than a confident answer might have.
“Am I supposed to come tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Am I being paid?”
“Yes.”
“For tomorrow?”
“For as long as we need to sort this out.”
Claire frowned.
“I don’t want charity.”
“It isn’t.”
“What is it?”
“Me preventing a dispute from getting worse.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“It may be.”
She looked at him.
“Your wife is going to hate you paying me.”
“She already hates the chandelier.”
Claire laughed despite herself.
Then the laugh turned into a sob.
She covered her face.
“Oh, God.”
Graham took one step toward her and stopped.
He did not touch her.
Claire was grateful.
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing.”
“I’m crying in your foyer.”
“It’s been a difficult foyer.”
That made it worse.
She laughed and cried at the same time, furious at herself for both.
Graham waited.
When Claire finally lowered her hands, he was looking toward the doors, giving her the dignity of not being watched.
She wiped her face.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Yes.”
“Did you really know what model it was?”
He looked back.
“Yes.”
“How?”
His expression changed.
“I bought one.”
Claire felt cold again.
“When?”
“Last year.”
“For what?”
He looked at the clear bin.
“I gave it to Lillian.”
Claire stared at him.
The whole evening shifted.
“You what?”
“It was after she started doing interviews for a foundation project. She complained that her phone recordings were terrible in large rooms. I gave her a compact recorder that pairs through an app.”
“The same model?”
“Yes.”
Claire looked toward the staircase.
“You knew immediately.”
“I recognized it.”
“And you didn’t say that.”
“No.”
“Why?”
His answer took too long.
Claire understood before he spoke.
“You were testing her.”
Graham’s jaw tightened.
“I wanted to see what she said.”
“That’s horrible.”
“Yes.”
The immediate agreement startled her.
He looked ashamed.
Claire set her tote down again.
“Was it hers?”
“I don’t know.”
“You said you gave her one.”
“I gave her that model. I don’t know whether this is the same unit.”
“You know the serial number.”
“Not from memory.”
“Where would it be?”
“In the receipt. Maybe the order history.”
“Can you check?”
“Yes.”
“Then why haven’t you?”
Graham looked toward the stairs.
Claire felt irritation rise.
“Because you want her to tell you first.”
“Yes.”
“That’s still horrible.”
“I know.”
“Stop agreeing with me. It makes it harder to stay mad.”
A tired half-smile appeared.
Claire did not return it.
“Check.”
He looked at her.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I was.”
He studied her for a second, then opened his phone.
It took less than a minute.
Claire stood several feet away, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder.
Graham found the purchase.
Then the order details.
Then, after another search, the warranty registration.
His face became very still.
Claire knew.
“It matches.”
He nodded.
The house made a soft sound somewhere above them.
A door closing.
Neither moved.
“So it’s hers,” Claire said.
“It was hers.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I gave her the recorder with that serial number eleven months ago.”
“And she just said she had never seen it.”
“Yes.”
Claire stared at the plastic bin.
Relief did not arrive.
She had expected it to.
Instead, her stomach hurt.
“Why would she do this?”
Graham locked his phone.
“I don’t know.”
Claire thought of yesterday.
The library door.
The red light.
The strange question about her father.
The advance.
The six-month offer.
She suddenly wanted very badly to go home.
“You do know.”
Graham looked at her.
“No.”
“You have an idea.”
“That isn’t the same.”
“What idea?”
He hesitated.
Claire laughed without humor.
“You just spent an hour demanding truth from everybody else.”
“That’s fair.”
“What idea?”
He leaned against the bench, then seemed to remember the bin and moved away from it.
“My wife believes I’m planning to leave her.”
Claire looked at him.
“Are you?”
He gave her a tired glance.
“That was direct.”
“You’re the one who came upstairs asking questions.”
He looked toward the darkening glass doors.
“Yes.”
Claire said nothing.
“I haven’t filed anything,” he added. “I haven’t made a final decision.”
“But you were thinking about it.”
“Yes.”
“Does she know?”
“I told her we needed to discuss what happens if things don’t improve.”
Claire made a face.
“What?”
“That sounds like something people say when they are already leaving but want credit for still standing in the room.”
Graham looked offended.
Then he considered it.
“Possibly.”
Claire picked up her tote again.
“Were you recording her?”
“No.”
“Was she recording you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You think she was.”
“Yes.”
Claire glanced upstairs.
“And you think she blamed me because…”
“I don’t know.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
She nodded.
That, at least, sounded honest.
He opened the front door.
Cool evening air moved into the foyer.
Claire stepped through, then turned.
“I saw her put it in the purse.”
Graham nodded.
“I believe you.”
“I’m not sure about the zipper.”
“I know.”
She swallowed.
“I hate that I’m not sure.”
“Memory isn’t video.”
Claire looked at the plastic bin through the open doorway.
“No.”
Then she walked to her car.
The next morning, Claire woke at 5:41 before her alarm and spent several seconds staring at the ceiling, trying to understand why she felt frightened.
May you like
Then she remembered the handbag.
She turned off the alarm before it rang.
