Chapter 3 - THE LIE ABOUT FRIDAY
I watched the video seventeen times.
Every time, Grant’s wrist came into view for less than two seconds.
Every time, the watch was there.
By the eighteenth viewing, grief had been replaced by something colder.
“Take me back.”
Marianne looked at me.
“To the house?”
“Yes.”
“Nora, owning property does not make walking into that situation safe.”
“I’m not going there to throw anybody out.”
“What are you going for?”
“My father’s watch.”
She studied me for several seconds.
“And the blue folder?”
“That too.”
Marianne exhaled.
“I’m coming with you.”
We reached the house shortly after eleven.
Blake was sitting on the front steps when our car pulled into the driveway.
The confidence he had shown while filming me was gone.
He stood.
“What are you doing here?”
“Getting my belongings.”
“Mom said—”
“I’m not asking your mother.”
His jaw tightened.
For a moment, I saw the same arrogance from yesterday.
Then his eyes shifted toward the dark stain still visible on the driveway where my mother’s ashes had mixed with rain.
He looked away.
“Grant’s inside.”
“Good.”
Celeste appeared before we reached the porch.
Her expression hardened when she saw Marianne.
“You.”
“Good morning, Celeste.”
“This is a private residence.”
Marianne’s voice remained calm.
“It is Nora’s private residence.”
Celeste’s face changed slightly.
Not surprise.
Recognition.
That told me everything I needed to know.
“You knew.”
Celeste folded her arms.
“This is neither the time nor the place.”
“You threw me into the rain knowing the house was mine.”
“I said this isn’t—”
“Where is my father’s watch?”
Grant appeared behind her.
He was wearing it.
He glanced down at his wrist too late.
I pointed.
“That.”
Grant’s expression barely moved.
“Richard gave it to me.”
“When?”
“Last Friday.”
Marianne looked at me.
I kept my eyes on Grant.
“Why?”
“He owed me money.”
“My father was an accountant who kept receipts for parking meters.”
Grant smiled without warmth.
“People can surprise you.”
“Yes.”
I stepped onto the porch.
“They can.”
Celeste moved between us.
“Nora, take your clothes and leave.”
“I want the watch.”
“No.”
“It belonged to my father.”
Grant adjusted his cuff.
“It belongs to me now.”
I almost lunged for it.
Marianne’s hand touched the middle of my back.
Steady.
Not stopping me.
Reminding me not to give them what they wanted.
So I smiled.
“All right.”
Grant’s eyebrows lifted.
Then I walked past him.
My bedroom looked as though someone had searched it.
Drawers half-open.
Mattress shifted.
Closet boxes disturbed.
My grief turned into alarm.
“What were you looking for?”
No one answered.
I went to my father’s study.
Grant followed.
So did Celeste.
Marianne remained near the doorway.
The blue folder was gone.
But almost everything else remained.
My father’s calculator.
His framed college diploma.
Three fountain pens.
A photograph of me at my high-school graduation.
The wooden watch box sat beside the lamp.
Empty.
I opened the drawer beneath it.
Receipts.
Old batteries.
A jeweler’s envelope.
I nearly ignored it.
Then I saw the date.
Tuesday.
The day my parents died.
My pulse quickened.
Inside was a service receipt for the watch.
Crystal cleaning.
Movement inspection.
Strap repair.
PICKED UP: 8:12 A.M.
CUSTOMER: RICHARD—
My father’s name.
I turned.
“You said he gave it to you Friday.”
Grant looked at the receipt.
Something sharp entered his face.
“Maybe I got the day wrong.”
“You got it wrong by four days.”
“He gave it to me Tuesday.”
“After eight-twelve in the morning?”
Celeste’s eyes moved toward her brother.
Grant shrugged.
“At lunch.”
“Where?”
“His office.”
My father’s office lobby had cameras.
Grant knew that.
I could see him realizing it.
“Give me the watch.”
“No.”
“Then I’ll let the police ask you why you lied about when you got it.”
That did it.
Grant unclasped the watch.
He crossed the room and placed it into my palm.
The metal was warm from his skin.
I hated that.
My father’s watch should not have been warm from Grant.
I closed my fingers around it.
“Feel better?”
Grant asked.
“No.”
I slipped it into my pocket.
“Not yet.”
He walked out.
Celeste stayed.
“Stop this.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t understand what you’re digging into.”
“Then explain it.”
Her eyes hardened.
“No.”
I turned back toward the desk.
The blotter had been moved.
My father had always kept it perfectly square.
I lifted it.
Underneath, faint impressions remained on a yellow legal pad.
He had written on the sheet above it hard enough to leave marks.
Marianne found a pencil.
I shaded lightly across the paper.
Letters appeared.
RED OAK.
Then two words.
ASK HER.
The handwriting beneath that was different.
Slanted.
Rounder.
Familiar.
My stomach dropped.
I had seen it on hundreds of birthday cards.
Grocery lists.
Notes taped to my bedroom door when I was growing up.
My mother’s handwriting.
Celeste moved behind me.
A soft sound escaped her.
I turned.
“You recognize it.”
She said nothing.
“You told me Mom barely came here after the divorce.”
“She didn’t.”
“You’re lying.”
Celeste looked toward the hallway to make certain Grant had gone.
Then she whispered something I never expected.
“Your mother sat in that chair three nights before she was killed.”
I stopped moving.
“Why?”
Celeste closed her eyes briefly.
“Because she knew about Grant.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“Knew what?”
Her eyes opened.
“That he was stealing from your father.”
I stared at the writing.
RED OAK.
ASK HER.
May you like
Then Celeste said the sentence that changed the entire shape of my parents’ marriage.
“Your mother and I were helping Richard prove it.”
