Chapter 10: The Weight of What Was Taken
On the second day, Gerald Pruitt sent flowers.
Not hospital gift shop flowers this time.
A proper arrangement, delivered by a florist, with a card that read: *Wishing you a swift recovery.
The community is thinking of you.
— Gerald.*
Sarah photographed the card and sent it to Diane.
Diane replied with two words: *Noted.
Tomorrow.*
That afternoon, Dr.
Okafor came for her daily check.
"The wound is healing well," she said, reviewing the dressing.
"Better than I would have predicted a week ago." She looked at Sarah over the chart.
"How are you sleeping?"
"Reasonably."
"And stress levels?"
Sarah glanced at her mother.
"Working on it," she said.
Dr.
Okafor made a note.
"The baby's measurements are good.
Another four days and I'd feel comfortable discharging you, provided you have somewhere stable to recover." She paused.
"Do you?"
"My mother's house," Sarah said.
Dr.
Okafor looked at Margaret.
"Is the house accessible?
No stairs to the bedroom?"
"There's a room on the ground floor," Margaret said.
"It was Thomas's study.
I can set it up."
"Good." Dr.
Okafor closed the chart.
"I'll want weekly check-ins after discharge.
The pregnancy is still considered high-risk given what the body has been through.
No driving for at least three weeks.
Minimal exertion."
"Understood," Sarah said.
After she left, the room was quiet.
"I'll need to clear out the study," Margaret said.
"There are boxes.
Files."
"I'll help."
"You're not supposed to exert yourself."
"I'll supervise," Sarah said.
Margaret almost smiled.
They were quiet for a moment.
"Can I ask you something?" Sarah said.
"Yes."
"The arguments.
When I was growing up." Sarah looked at the ceiling.
"Were they always about the same thing?
You wanting me to stay close, and me wanting to go?"
Margaret thought about it.
"Mostly," she said.
"Though it didn't always look like that on the surface." She paused.
"Sometimes it looked like arguments about curfews.
Or about your grades.
Or about whether you'd called your aunt back." She paused again.
"But underneath, yes.
It was always the same thing."
"You were scared."
"I was terrified," Margaret said.
"From the time you were old enough to have your own ideas, you were always moving toward the edge of things.
Toward the hard places.
And I didn't know how to — " She stopped.
"I didn't know how to be the kind of mother who could let you do that without falling apart."
"So you tried to stop me instead."
"Yes.
And it didn't work.
And I said things I shouldn't have said." Margaret looked at her hands.
"And then you were gone, and I had all the time in the world to think about how I'd handled it."
"Did you ever think about calling?"
"Every day," Margaret said.
"For the first three years, every single day." She paused.
"Then it became — harder.
The longer I waited, the more impossible it felt.
Like the silence had become a wall and I didn't know how to get through it without — " She stopped.
"Without admitting how much time I'd wasted."
"Sixteen years," Sarah said.
"Sixteen years," Margaret agreed.
Sarah looked at her mother's profile.
At the grey hair and the set jaw and the right arm that didn't move the way it used to.
"I wasted time too," Sarah said.
"I want to be clear about that.
I could have called.
I chose not to."
"You were twenty years old and I told you I wouldn't know where to bury you."
"I know what you said.
I'm still responsible for my half of the silence." Sarah paused.
"I'm not saying that to make you feel better.
I'm saying it because it's true, and because — " She stopped.
"Because I don't want to spend whatever time we have left sorting out who owes whom an apology.
I'd rather just — move forward."
Margaret looked at her.
"Move forward," she repeated.
"If that's possible," Sarah said.
"I don't know if it is.
But I'd like to try."
Margaret was quiet for a long moment.
Outside, the afternoon light was shifting.
The room had gone golden and warm, the way Louisiana light did in the late afternoon, coming through the window at a low angle and making everything look softer than it was.
"Your father used to say that," Margaret said finally.
"Move forward.
He said it was the only direction worth traveling."
"I know," Sarah said.
"I think I learned it from him."
Margaret's left hand moved to the rail again.
She didn't say anything else.
She didn't need to.
That evening, Diane called.
"We're ready," she said.
"I'm meeting with the FBI contact tomorrow morning at nine.
Ray is coming with the full documentation package." She paused.
"I want you to know — what we've put together is strong.
The original documentation from your father, the shell company trail, the land transfer, the timeline your mother built.
It's a coherent case.
It tells a clear story."
"What happens after the meeting?" Sarah asked.
"That depends on the agent.
But given what we have, I'd expect a formal investigation to open within the week.
Once it opens, Pruitt won't be able to move assets without triggering flags." Diane paused.
"It won't be fast, Sarah.
These things rarely are.
But it will move."
"Will he know it's coming?"
"Not from us.
But men like Pruitt — they have instincts.
He may feel the ground shift before he sees anything official."
"Let him," Sarah said.
"There's one more thing," Diane said.
"The land.
The forty acres.
Given the circumstances of the transfer — the probate irregularities, the lack of proper notification to your mother — there's a civil case to be made alongside the fraud case.
It won't be quick either.
But the land may be recoverable."
Sarah looked at her mother across the room.
"Dad called it the quiet place," she said.
"I know," Diane said.
"Margaret told me, when I called her this afternoon." A pause.
"She said the light comes through the cypress trees in the late afternoon and it looks like something out of a painting."
Sarah's throat tightened.
"Yes," she said.
"It does."
May you like
"Get some rest," Diane said.
"Tomorrow we start."
