Chapter 9: The Last Conversation
My mother resigned from the St.
Catherine foundation board the following morning.
Daniel received her written confirmation at eleven forty-two.
No explanation given.
No statement to the board.
She simply submitted her resignation by email and went quiet.
Marcus did not go quiet.
He called three times before noon — once to my cell, once to the office main line, once to my business partner, Reid, who texted me immediately afterward: *Marcus just called me.
What is going on?*
I called Reid back and told him everything.
He listened without interrupting, which was unusual for Reid.
When I finished, he was silent for a moment.
"Your mother," he said.
"Yes."
"The carried interest."
"Yes."
"Ethan." Another pause.
"She was on the investor call in March.
The one where we walked through the projected returns."
I had forgotten that.
She had asked to sit in, said she wanted to understand the structure better.
I had thought nothing of it at the time.
"She knew exactly what the deal was worth," Reid said.
"I know."
"Okay." His voice settled into something practical.
"What do you need from me?"
"Keep Marcus off the floor.
If he comes to the office, call security.
Don't engage with him directly."
"Done.
What about Meridian?"
I had been thinking about Meridian since the parking garage.
The unsigned contract.
Nine investors.
Two attorneys.
A deal worth nearly $940 million sitting on a table I had walked away from.
"Call Harrington," I said.
"Tell him I had a family emergency and ask if we can reschedule the signing for later this week.
Don't give details."
"He's not going to be happy."
"He'll be less happy if I sign something major while I'm operating on four hours of sleep and a fraud investigation."
Reid made a sound that was almost a laugh.
"Fair enough.
I'll call him."
I drove to the hospital.
Clover was out of bed when I arrived, sitting in the chair by the window in a hospital-issued robe, her hair pulled back.
She looked less exhausted than the day before.
Not rested — that would take months — but present in a way she hadn't been yesterday.
I told her everything.
I started with Marcus and the redirected calls, then Preston and the fraudulent filing, then the trust account and the carried interest, then my mother's connection to Dr.
Reyes and the foundation board.
I told her about the file Daniel had built and the call I had made to my mother the night before.
Clover listened to all of it without interrupting.
When I finished, she looked out the window for a long moment.
"She knew from eight weeks," Clover said.
"Almost certainly."
"She watched me go through the entire pregnancy knowing what she'd done."
"Yes."
Clover was quiet again.
Then she said, "Did she ask about Owen?
When you called her last night?"
I thought back to the conversation.
The careful.
The carried interest.
The resignation.
"No," I said.
"She didn't."
Something moved across Clover's face — not surprise.
Something sadder than surprise.
"What do you want to do?" I asked.
"About the formal complaint.
About what comes next.
Daniel says we have enough for a fraud inquiry.
But this is your injury.
You get to decide how far it goes."
Clover looked at her hands.
"I don't want a long legal fight," she said.
"I don't want Owen's first years to be defined by depositions and court dates." She paused.
"But I don't want her to think she got away with it either."
"She won't think that."
"How do you know?"
"Because she resigned from the board the moment I gave her the choice.
She knows what we have.
She knows what it could become." I leaned forward.
"She's not going to push this.
She's too careful for that."
Clover almost smiled at the word.
"I want one thing," she said.
"Tell me."
"I want her to say it.
To me.
Not to you, not to Daniel, not in a legal document." She looked at me directly.
"I want her to sit across from me and say what she did and why.
No lawyers in the room.
Just her."
"I'll arrange it."
"And I want to decide after that whether I want anything further."
"That's fair."
She nodded once.
Then she stood up, slowly, and moved toward the door.
"Come on," she said.
"Owen had a good night.
They're letting me hold him today."
We walked down the corridor together.
In the NICU, a nurse helped Clover into the chair beside the warming unit and carefully transferred Owen — wires and all — into her arms.
He was still small.
Still attached to monitors.
But his color was better and his breathing, when I watched the rise and fall of his chest, was steadier than the day before.
Clover looked down at him.
She didn't say anything for a while.
She just held him.
Then she looked up at me and said, "Sit down, Ethan."
I pulled a chair close.
We sat there for a long time, the three of us, in the particular quiet of a room where something difficult had just begun to turn.
May you like
Owen's hand found Clover's finger.
He held on.
