Chapter 8: What Ethan Did Next
Three days passed.
Sandra filed the counter-motion.
The forensic examiner received the documents.
Dennis Farrow submitted the threatening text to the investigator he was working with at the state attorney's office.
On the fourth morning, Ethan called.
I let it ring.
He called again.
I let it ring again.
On the third call I picked up because Sandra had told me to document any direct contact he attempted.
"I'm recording this," I said before he could speak.
A pause.
"Fine," he said.
"Record it."
His voice was different.
Not the controlled version.
Not the calculating one.
Something rawer underneath.
"I want to talk," he said.
"Not through lawyers.
Just talk."
"There's nothing to talk about that isn't already being handled legally."
"Claire." He said my name the way he used to say it when we first met.
Like it meant something.
"I made mistakes.
I know that.
My mother — she pushed for things I shouldn't have agreed to.
The contract was her idea.
Pryce was her contact.
I went along with it because—" He stopped.
"Because you wanted my father's money," I said.
"Because I was weak," he said.
"Because she's been running my decisions since I was twenty years old and I didn't know how to say no to her."
I sat with that for a moment.
"Ethan," I said.
"Whether that's true or not — and I'm not saying it is — it doesn't change what was done.
My father's signature was forged.
His estate was nearly stolen.
Three other families lost everything to the same people you brought into this house."
"I didn't know about the other families."
"Maybe not," I said.
"But you knew about mine."
Silence.
"What do you want?" he said finally.
"What would it take?"
"I don't want anything from you," I said.
"I want the people who forged my father's signature to face what they did.
I want Raymond Cassel and Victor Pryce charged.
I want the record corrected.
That's what I want."
"And me?" he said.
"What happens to me?"
"That's between you and the law," I said.
"And between you and whatever you can live with."
He was quiet for a long time.
"My mother is saying you fabricated the documents," he said.
"She's saying Gerald Holt is a con man and you're working together to defraud us."
"I know," I said.
"Sandra told me.
Barbara gave a statement to that effect yesterday."
"She's going to fight this all the way."
"I know that too."
Another pause.
Then, quietly: "I'm sorry, Claire.
I know that doesn't mean anything now.
But I am."
I didn't tell him whether I believed him.
I didn't tell him whether it mattered.
"Goodbye, Ethan," I said.
I ended the call and sent the recording to Sandra.
She called back within the hour.
"He's going to try to separate himself from Barbara and Pryce," she said.
"Claim he was manipulated.
It might work partially — it depends on what the forensic examiner finds and whether Cassel cooperates."
"Will Cassel cooperate?"
"Dennis thinks so," Sandra said.
"Cassel is seventy-one years old and he's looking at fraud charges.
His daughter doesn't know about the account the money was wired to.
When she finds out, Dennis thinks Cassel will talk."
"And Pryce?"
"Pryce will fight," Sandra said.
"He always does.
But he made a mistake sending that text.
And he made a bigger mistake underestimating how prepared your father was."
I was sitting on the dock when she said that.
The lake was still.
A heron was standing at the far edge of the water, motionless.
"My father was the most careful man I ever knew," I said.
"It shows," Sandra said.
"I'll call you when the forensic results come in."
I sat on the dock for a long time after she hung up.
The heron didn't move.
I thought about my father getting up at six on Saturday mornings.
Making coffee.
Waiting for me to stop pretending to be asleep.
I thought about him sitting across from Gerald, building a case he hoped I would never need.
I thought about the letter in my coat pocket, folded and refolded until the creases were soft.
*I didn't say anything because I didn't want to hurt you.
That was my mistake.*
"It wasn't only yours," I said quietly, to the water, to no one.
The heron lifted its wings and was gone.
That evening, Sandra sent a message.
*Cassel agreed to cooperate.
He'll give a full statement.
Pryce doesn't know yet.*
I read it twice.
Set the phone down.
Picked it up again.
May you like
*Thank you*, I wrote back.
Then I went inside and made dinner for one, and the quiet of the house felt, for the first time, like something that belonged to me.
