Chapter 4 - THE MOTHER WHO CHOSE HIM
“Where is she?”
My voice was so quiet that Diane looked frightened.
“In the kitchen.”
“Stay with Sophie.”
“Claire—”
“Please.”
I walked past the birthday decorations.
A deflated balloon lay beneath the dining-room table.
Someone had wrapped the remaining cake in plastic.
Eight little candle marks still scarred the frosting.
My mother sat beside the kitchen window, turning a silver wristwatch between her fingers.
It had belonged to my father.
He had worn it for thirty-two years before his death.
Grant inherited it.
I inherited Dad's old desk and a cardboard box filled with photographs.
At the time, I told myself that love wasn't measured in objects.
Now I wondered how often I'd used that sentence to excuse people who treated me as less important.
My mother looked up.
“Claire.”
I put the declaration on the table.
“Explain this.”
Her eyes fell to the paper.
“I was trying to protect Sophie.”
“From me?”
“From what might happen.”
“What might happen, Mom?”
She looked away.
“Grant said there were serious charges.”
“Grant created the charges.”
“You don't know that.”
“I know he prepared this before I was arrested.”
Her silence answered me.
I sat across from her.
“When did he ask you to sign?”
“Thursday afternoon.”
“Why?”
“He said investigators might come. He said children can be placed in temporary care when a parent is detained.”
“He knew Sophie has a father.”
“Ben was in Colorado.”
“That's not the same as being dead.”
She flinched.
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I asked the question that mattered.
“Why didn't you call me?”
“Grant said you would deny everything.”
“And that was enough?”
Her eyes filled.
“He showed me evidence.”
“What evidence?”
“A photograph. You were holding a computer drive. There were government screens behind you.”
I stared at her.
“That was from a training exercise in 2018.”
“I didn't know.”
“You could have asked.”
“He told me you'd lost your clearance because of misconduct.”
The cruelty of it was almost elegant.
Grant hadn't invented every detail.
He had taken real pieces of my life, removed their meaning, and handed them to our mother.
“Mom, I left federal service voluntarily.”
She lowered her head.
“I thought—”
“No. You decided.”
That sentence sat between us.
For the first time, she didn't argue.
I noticed the watch in her hand.
“Why do you have Dad's watch?”
She rubbed a thumb across its scratched glass.
“Grant left it here yesterday.”
“Why?”
“He said he needed it repaired.”
I held out my hand.
She gave it to me.
The second hand had stopped at fourteen minutes past two.
I remembered Grant wearing that watch constantly.
Even when it stopped working, he kept it on because he liked the way people noticed it.
My father had once said Grant cared more about appearing dependable than actually being dependable.
I hadn't understood the difference at seventeen.
I understood now.
“Mom, did you help him access my old email?”
Her face changed.
That was answer enough.
“How?”
“He said you couldn't find a tax record. He asked whether I remembered the recovery address you used when you were younger.”
I stared at her.
Years earlier, I'd used a family email account as a recovery contact for a personal archive.
I thought I'd removed it.
Apparently, one forgotten connection had survived.
“I told him the address,” she whispered. “He helped me open the account on my computer.”
“Did you approve a recovery request?”
“I thought I was helping you.”
My throat tightened.
“Did it occur to you to check with me?”
“He said it was a surprise. Something for your birthday.”
“My birthday was in April.”
Her eyes filled again.
“I know that now.”
For several moments, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “What else have you kept from me?”
She shook her head.
“Nothing.”
I waited.
She looked at the watch.
“Two years ago, Grant asked me to guarantee a business loan.”
“How much?”
“Four hundred thousand dollars.”
I stared.
“You guaranteed his loan with your house?”
“He said the company had a temporary cash-flow problem. He promised everything would be settled after the acquisition.”
My mother's house had been paid off for almost twenty years.
It was the one substantial asset she had left.
“And now?”
“He says if the acquisition fails, the lender could come after the house.”
Suddenly, I understood why she looked frightened.
Grant hadn't merely convinced our mother that I was dangerous.
He had convinced her that believing me could cost her everything.
“Mom,” I said, “you're being used.”
She began crying.
But I wasn't ready to comfort her.
Not yet.
Upstairs, a floorboard creaked.
I turned.
Sophie stood in the doorway wearing pink pajamas.
Her birthday tiara was gone.
“Mom?”
I crossed the kitchen before she could take another step.
She threw herself into my arms.
I held her so tightly that she squeaked.
“Too tight.”
“Sorry, sweetheart.”
She leaned back.
“Are you going away again?”
I swallowed.
“I'm working very hard so that doesn't happen.”
She studied my wrists.
“Did the metal hurt?”
“A little.”
She gently touched the red mark.
Then she whispered, “I saved you some cake.”
That nearly broke me.
Before I could answer, my mother spoke.
“Claire, there's something else.”
I looked up.
She was staring at the silver watch.
“On Tuesday, when Grant came to your apartment, I stopped by with Sophie's birthday gift.”
“You didn't come upstairs.”
“No. But I saw someone leaving your hallway.”
“Who?”
“A woman wearing a gray coat. She was carrying an orange storage case.”
My stomach tightened.
“Did you recognize her?”
My mother nodded.
“She came here once with your brother. He introduced her as his company's compliance officer.”
May you like
I knew the name before my mother said it.
“Nora Pike.”
