Part 7
Silence followed.
Alden’s voice changed.
“Is your wife suspected?”
“Yes.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Was there violence between you and your wife?”
“No.”
“Any weapons involved?”
“No.”
“Did you use your position to influence local authorities?”
“No. I requested a welfare check as a private citizen.”
Alden exhaled.
“I’m sorry, Nate.”
Nathaniel looked through the bedroom doorway. Margaret was moving the soup bowl away from herself with one finger.
Alden said, “You’re scheduled to assume deputy command in ten days.”
“I know.”
“Can you?”
The question should have been simple.
Nathaniel had pursued the position for four years. It would place him on a path toward general officer consideration. Vivienne understood the value of it better than he did. She had hosted dinners, remembered spouses’ names, and turned every posting into a network.
Margaret had hidden bruises partly to protect that future.
He said, “I need emergency leave.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
Alden was quiet again.
“I can authorize seven days immediately.”
“That won’t be enough.”
“Then we’ll address day eight when it comes.”
Nathaniel thanked him.
Before disconnecting, Alden said, “Do not talk to the press.”
“I won’t.”
“And get out of the uniform.”
Nathaniel looked down at the ribbons on his chest.
He had forgotten he was still wearing it.
In his old bedroom, he found clothes from another version of himself: a University of Virginia sweatshirt, khaki pants, a navy blazer with moth damage along one sleeve. Elena had kept several boxes in the closet despite Vivienne’s insistence that the room become a wellness studio.
He changed into jeans and a gray sweater borrowed from a drawer.
His wedding ring caught on the cuff.
He turned it once around his finger and left it in place.
Near midnight, he received an email from Martin Kessler. Attached was a formal request that Vivienne be permitted access to personal belongings and financial records at Greenwood Hall. The message emphasized that no criminal charge had been filed and warned against destruction or concealment of marital property.
Nathaniel forwarded it to a family attorney named Susan Bell, who had represented the Mercer trust since his father’s death.
She called immediately.
“Do not answer him yourself.”
“I already told him she couldn’t come home.”
“By phone?”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
“No.”
“Good. Where are the trust records?”
“Some are in my father’s study.”
“Secure the room, but do not remove anything.”
“I need to know whether money is missing.”
“So do the investigators. That does not mean you start opening drawers at midnight.”
Nathaniel sat on the edge of his childhood bed.
“Everyone keeps telling me not to do anything.”
“Because you’re used to action being evidence of competence.”
“And in this case?”
“In this case, action can destroy chain of custody, undermine your mother’s autonomy, violate your wife’s rights, and make you look like a husband arranging facts after a domestic crisis.”
He rubbed his forehead.
Susan’s voice softened.
“I believe you’re trying to help.”
“That sounds like something said before explaining why I’m dangerous.”
“You’re not dangerous. You’re emotionally involved, powerful, angry, and inexperienced with this process. That combination deserves supervision.”
He looked at the wedding ring again.
“Vivienne says there are financial facts I don’t know.”
“There usually are.”
“Did my mother change the trust?”
“Not through me.”
“Could she have used another attorney?”
“Yes.”
“Could Vivienne?”
“Not legally on Margaret’s behalf without authority.”
“Could she have forged it?”
Susan paused.
“Do not say that to anyone unless you have evidence.”
“Could she?”
“Yes.”
Nathaniel heard movement in the hallway and stood.
Margaret appeared at his doorway, holding the frame with one hand. Denise hovered behind her with the walker.
“You should be in bed,” he said.
Margaret frowned.
“That sentence is how all this began.”
He stepped aside.
She entered slowly and looked around the room. The model airplane he built at fourteen still rested crookedly on a shelf. A faded poster of the Blue Ridge Mountains hung above the desk. Vivienne had called the room embarrassing.
Margaret touched the wing of the model plane.
“Your father said it would never fly.”
“It didn’t.”
“You threw it from the roof.”
“The wing came off.”
“You blamed the wind.”
Nathaniel sat in the desk chair while she lowered herself onto the bed.
Denise asked whether she needed anything.
Margaret said, “Privacy.”
The nurse left the door open and waited in the hallway.
Margaret noticed but did not complain.
She looked at Nathaniel’s bare uniform hanger.
“Tom Alden called?”
“How did you know?”
“He called me.”
“When?”
“Last month.”
Nathaniel leaned forward.
“Why?”
“He wanted to know whether I planned to attend your ceremony.”
“And what did you say?”
“That I had a cold.”
“Did Vivienne tell you to say that?”
Margaret smoothed the blanket beneath her palm.
“She said photographs would be unkind.”
“To whom?”
“To you.”
Nathaniel waited.
Margaret added, “I had bruises on my arms then.”
He stood and walked to the window because sitting had become impossible.
“What did Alden say?”
“He sent flowers.”
“He didn’t tell me.”
“I asked him not to.”
The estate lawn lay dark beyond the glass. Landscape lights illuminated the bare branches of an old sycamore.
Nathaniel said, “How many people did you ask not to tell me?”
“Enough.”
“Why did everyone listen?”
“Because I am still your mother.”
He turned.
“You were being harmed.”
“I was also making choices.”
“Choices under fear.”
“Yes.” Her voice sharpened. “Poor choices. Cowardly choices. Choices I regret. They were still mine.”
Nathaniel gripped the windowsill.
Margaret watched him.
“You cannot rescue me by pretending I had no part in my own silence.”
“I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“Neither do I.”
That answer eased the argument.
Margaret looked around the room again.
“Your wife hated this wallpaper.”
“It is ugly.”
“She wanted gray.”
“Everything she chooses is gray or green.”
“She chose you.”
Nathaniel stared at her.
Margaret’s mouth tightened.
“That was unkind.”
“It was accurate.”
May you like
“No. It wasn’t.”
She shifted on the bed and winced.
