Chapter 7: What My Mother Knew
"Fiona." Her voice was different from this morning.
The sharpness was gone.
What was left sounded smaller.
"Where are you?"
"I'm safe, Mom."
"Your father came home very upset."
"I imagine he did."
A pause.
I could hear the house in the background.
The familiar sounds of it.
The old clock in the hallway.
The creak of the kitchen chair she always sat in when she made phone calls.
"He won't tell me what happened at the bank," she said.
"He just keeps saying it's a misunderstanding."
"It isn't."
Another pause.
Longer.
"Fiona.
What did Walter leave you?"
I looked at Ruth across the desk.
Ruth gave a small nod — not telling me what to say, just steadying me.
"He left me the company, Mom.
The controlling shares.
Dad was never the owner.
Grandpa was.
And now I am."
The silence on the other end lasted long enough that I thought the call had dropped.
"Mom?"
"I know," she said.
Two words.
Very quiet.
"You knew?"
"Not all of it.
Not the details." Her voice was careful now, the way people speak when they're choosing each word before it leaves their mouth.
"Walter told me, years ago, that he'd made provisions.
That if things ever went wrong — if Richard ever—" She stopped.
"He said he'd made sure someone responsible would be in a position to protect what he'd built."
"And you never told me."
"He asked me not to.
He said you'd know when the time came." A breath.
"I didn't know it would be like this.
I didn't know Richard would—" Another stop.
"This morning, Fiona.
I want you to know I didn't agree with what happened this morning."
"You crossed your arms, Mom.
You told me I was ruining Christmas."
"I know."
"You watched him push my suitcase out the door."
"I know." Her voice cracked slightly.
Just slightly.
"I'm sorry.
I am.
I don't always—" She went quiet again.
"Your father has a way of making the room go in one direction.
I've never been good at standing against it."
I thought about the $4,000 I'd lent him three weeks ago.
The medication I'd paid for.
The half of Christmas dinner I'd prepared.
"How long have you known about the money, Mom?
The company accounts?"
Silence.
"Mom."
"I suspected," she said finally.
"I didn't ask questions because I didn't want the answers."
That was honest, at least.
"Is Savannah there?"
"She's upstairs.
She's been up there since your father came home." A pause.
"Lucas left.
They had some kind of argument.
I don't know what about."
Lucas already knew.
Or he'd figured out enough to know the engagement celebration was over.
"I need you to do something for me," I said.
"What?"
"Don't let Dad make any calls to the company tonight.
No emails, no calls to the board, no contact with the legal team.
Tell him I'm asking for twenty-four hours."
"He won't listen to me."
"Tell him if he waits twenty-four hours, I'll come to the house and we'll talk.
All of us.
Together." I paused.
"Tell him that's the only offer I'm making."
A long silence.
"And if he doesn't wait?"
"Then I go straight to the board without the conversation."
I heard her breathe.
"I'll tell him," she said.
"Thank you, Mom."
She didn't hang up immediately.
There was a moment — just a moment — where I heard her exhale, slow and tired, like she'd been holding something in for a very long time.
"Fiona." Her voice was very quiet.
"Your grandfather loved you more than anything.
I want you to know I always understood why."
The line went still.
I set the phone down on Ruth's desk.
Ruth didn't say anything.
She poured two glasses of water from the pitcher on her credenza and set one in front of me.
I drank it.
Outside the window, the afternoon light had gone flat and grey.
Somewhere across town, my father was sitting in the house he had always called his, in the company of a story he had told for thirty-one years, watching it come apart at the seams.
My phone lit up one more time.
Not a call.
A text.
From a number I didn't recognize.
*Miss Palmer.
My name is Carol Jennings.
Ruth asked me to be available if you needed to speak with me directly.
There's one item in the financial records I didn't include in the report.
Walter asked me to tell you about it in person.
It changes the picture somewhat.
Can we meet tomorrow morning?*
I read it twice.
Then I showed it to Ruth.
She read it.
Set the phone down.
"I didn't know she'd held something back," Ruth said.
"Did Grandpa tell you what it was?"
"No." She looked genuinely uncertain for the first time since I'd walked in.
"Walter kept certain things compartmentalized.
Even from me."
I looked at Carol's message again.
*It changes the picture somewhat.*
I typed back: *Tomorrow.
May you like
Eight a.m.
Tell me where.*
