Chương 7
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Nora’s expression hardened. “Because until an hour ago, she gave orders in this house and you followed them more reliably than anyone.”
Victor looked away.
Nora softened, though not enough to comfort him. “I should have gone in yesterday.”
“Yes.”
“So should you.”
“Yes.”
They stood together in the entrance hall, where staff and family had spent years pretending the difference between obedience and consent was obvious.
At midnight, Victor sat on the floor beside Ethan’s bed.
He had not sat on a child’s bedroom floor since the week Anna died. Back then, Ethan had been five and slept only if Victor kept one hand on the mattress. Victor had lasted four nights before Margaret hired a night nurse. He had told himself expertise was kinder than exhaustion.
Ethan woke at twelve twenty-three and asked for Clara.
Victor said she had gone to stay with a friend.
“Because of me?”
“No.”
“Because of the globe?”
“No.”
“Because of Grandmother?”
Victor paused. “Partly.”
Ethan turned his face into the pillow. “I shouldn’t have pulled it.”
“Why did you?”
“The ribbon was stuck.”
“Why was it tied to the globe?”
Ethan did not answer.
Victor waited.
After a while, the boy whispered, “Clara tied it there at Christmas.”
“Why?”
“So I could find it.”
“Find what?”
“The star Mama liked.”
Victor looked toward the painted ceiling. Anna had liked Vega because, as a child, she had misheard it as a girl’s name and imagined a woman living alone in the sky.
The globe had stood in the library for years. Victor had never known Clara used it with Ethan.
“The ribbon marked Vega?” he asked.
A nod moved against the pillow.
“Grandmother said Clara had to take it off because it looked cheap. I pulled it before she could.”
Victor closed his eyes.
The globe had not fallen during reckless play. Ethan had been trying to preserve the place where someone had helped him remember his mother.
“Clara didn’t tell you to pull it?”
“No.”
“Did Grandmother say she was leaving?”
“She said Clara was going away because she lied.”
“What lie?”
Ethan’s hands disappeared beneath the blanket. “I don’t know.”
Victor recognized retreat when he saw it.
He remained beside the bed until his son slept again.
At one thirty in the morning, he found the password for the school portal in an email Clara had sent him six months earlier. The subject line read IMPORTANT ACCESS INFORMATION. He had forwarded it to his assistant without opening the attachment.
He removed Margaret from the authorized pickup list.
Then he searched his messages for Clara’s name.
There were twenty-seven conversations over ten months. Most were one-sided.
Ethan has a low fever. Dr. Hale recommends fluids and rest.
Ethan’s teacher would like a parent conference next Tuesday.
He asked whether you will attend the science night.
He had a difficult dream and would like to speak with you before your trip.
Could we discuss Mrs. Vale’s visits privately?
Victor’s replies were brief.
Approved.
Please coordinate with the office.
I’ll try.
Handle it with my mother.
The last message from Clara had arrived that morning at 8:11.
I need to speak with you before I leave the house tonight. It concerns Ethan’s safety.
He had been in the air when she sent it. When his plane landed, he had seen a missed call from Margaret, one from Gerald Rusk, and an alert that the Mercer acquisition meeting had been moved. Clara’s message had remained unread until now.
Victor sat alone in his dark study and read it three times.
At seven the next morning, the county child welfare intake office called.
By eight, Ethan’s school counselor had arranged for him to remain home. By nine, a social worker named Renee Dalton was scheduled to visit the mansion that afternoon. By ten, Gerald Rusk had sent Victor a twelve-page memorandum warning him against making “unsubstantiated intrafamilial allegations” during a corporate transaction.
At ten fifteen, Margaret sent a single text.
You are allowing grief to make you reckless again.
Victor deleted it, then recovered it from the trash because Renee had told him not to erase communications.
He spent the rest of the morning discovering how difficult it was to care for his son while answering no work calls. Ethan would not eat eggs because Clara cut the toast into strips first. He would not enter the library. He had misplaced one black shoe and refused the brown pair because Tuesday was a black-shoe day.
“Why?” Victor asked.
“Because it is.”
The answer irritated him until he understood that the routine had survived when other things had not.
They found the shoe beneath the piano bench.
At noon, Ethan asked whether Victor knew where the spare batteries for the night-light were.
Victor did not.
“They’re in the blue drawer.”
There were six blue drawers in the schoolroom.
Ethan watched him open the wrong five.
“You don’t know anything,” he said.
Victor shut the final drawer more sharply than necessary. “I know quite a lot.”
“Not here.”
The words left no room for defense.
Renee Dalton arrived at two carrying a canvas bag and wearing practical boots darkened by rain. She was in her mid-fifties, with close-cropped hair and a voice that made no effort to soothe adults.
She spoke to Victor first in the small sitting room.
“Dr. Hale reported suspected physical and emotional maltreatment by a family member,” she said. “She also reported an adult caregiver with a visible facial injury who stated she was harmed while intervening.”
“Clara has left the house.”
“I have her number from the doctor. Do I have your permission to speak with Ethan alone?”
Victor’s instinctive refusal rose before he could examine it.
Renee seemed to see it.
“You can say no,” she said. “I may then have to determine whether other steps are necessary. I am not threatening you. I am explaining the process.”
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“Will you record him?”
“Not today. I will speak with him in a developmentally appropriate way. If the information warrants a formal forensic interview, that would occur elsewhere with trained personnel.”
