Chapter 8: Face to Face
Catherine opened the door of Preston's townhouse herself.
She was dressed simply — dark trousers, a cream blouse — and her expression when she saw me was the expression of someone who had rehearsed for this moment and was pleased with how prepared they felt.
"Evelyn." She stepped back.
"Come in."
I came in.
I did not sit when she gestured toward the living room sofa.
I stood near the window.
"Where's Preston?" I asked.
"Out." She settled into an armchair with her hands folded in her lap.
"I thought it might be better if we spoke alone."
"Did you."
"We got off to a terrible start." Her voice was smooth and measured.
"What happened at the wedding was awful.
I want you to know that I never imagined Preston would react the way he did.
I only mentioned what I thought I saw—"
"You put the brooch in my daughter's hands," I said.
The smoothness flickered.
Just once.
Just for a half-second.
"I'm sorry?"
"Sophie told me.
You called her over to the display table.
You let her hold the brooch.
Then you took it back and said, 'Better not.
Someone might think you took it.'" I watched her face.
"You put it in her hands so that if anyone asked, there was a reason her fingerprints were on it."
Catherine was quiet for a moment.
Then she said, "She's eight.
Children misremember."
"She also remembers the exact dress you were wearing and the song the quartet was playing when it happened.
She has a very good memory." I paused.
"Better than you counted on."
Something shifted in Catherine's posture.
Barely visible.
A slight drawing-in, like a door being pulled closer to its frame without quite latching.
"I think you should leave," she said.
"I'll leave in a moment.
I just want to ask you one thing." I kept my voice conversational.
"The Hargrove property on the north shore.
The one your family lost eleven years ago.
Is that what this is about?"
The color in her face did not drain.
It did something more controlled than that — it simply went still, the way a screen goes still when a signal is cut.
"Get out of my house," she said.
"It's Preston's house." I picked up my bag from the floor.
"And in four months, when the Vance trust distributes, I want you to know that Diane Marsh's signed statement, Sophie's account of what you did at the brooch table, and the full history of Hargrove versus Vance Properties will be in front of a judge before you see a single dollar."
She stood up.
"You have no idea what you're doing."
"I know exactly what I'm doing." I moved toward the door.
"So does my attorney."
I had my hand on the door handle when she spoke again.
"Preston won't testify against me." Her voice had changed.
The smoothness was gone.
What was underneath it was harder and older.
"He loves me.
And when I tell him you came here making accusations, trying to poison our marriage — he will choose me.
He always will.
That's what men like Preston do."
I turned around.
"Maybe," I said.
"But Preston isn't the one I need."
I walked out.
On the front step, I took one slow breath of October air.
My hands were steady.
My heart was not — but that was all right.
It didn't need to be.
I had given her nothing she could use.
May you like
And she had given me exactly what I needed.
Because while we were talking, I had not been alone.
