Chapter 3: What Claire Knew
Margaret crossed the room in eight steps.
She stopped directly in front of Claire, close enough that Claire had to look up.
"You knew," Margaret said.
Not a question.
"Margaret, this isn't the time—"
"You knew Daniel had children."
Claire's jaw tightened.
"I knew nothing of the sort."
"Then why aren't you surprised?" Margaret's voice dropped to something quieter and far more dangerous.
"Every person in this room is shocked.
Every single one.
Except you."
Richard stepped between them.
"Mother, stop.
This is not the place."
"Don't." Margaret put her hand flat against his chest and pushed him back one step.
"Don't you dare tell me where the place is.
Not tonight."
The doctor had guided the four boys to a settee near the far wall.
The oldest — he couldn't have been more than ten — sat with his back straight, watching everything.
The youngest had fallen asleep against his brother's shoulder.
Margaret turned back to Claire.
"How long have you known about them?"
"I want a lawyer present before I answer anything."
The room went very still.
Richard's uncle, a heavyset man named Gerald who had been silent near the drinks table, set his glass down slowly.
"That's not the answer of someone with nothing to hide, Claire."
"Stay out of this, Gerald."
"Daniel was my nephew." His voice was flat.
"Those boys are his sons.
I'm already in it."
Claire looked at Richard.
Something passed between them — a flicker, a calculation — and then Richard turned to his mother.
"We should move this to the study.
Away from the guests."
"The guests have already heard everything," Margaret said.
"There is no away anymore."
She walked to the doctor.
"What is your name?"
"Dr.
Nora Voss.
I was Daniel's physician for the last two years of his life."
"And he asked you to bring them here?
Tonight?
On Christmas?"
"He chose the date deliberately, Mrs.
Hargrove." Dr.
Voss met her eyes without flinching.
"He said Christmas was the one night the whole family would be together.
He didn't want anyone to be able to claim they weren't there."
Margaret looked at the envelope still in Dr.
Voss's hand.
"Give it to me."
Dr.
Voss placed it in her palm.
Margaret didn't open it immediately.
She stood holding it, and for a moment she looked very old and very tired, the kind of tired that has nothing to do with the hour.
Then she looked at the oldest boy across the room.
"What is your name?"
He stood up.
"Thomas.
Thomas Hargrove."
The name landed like something dropped from a height.
Margaret closed her eyes for three seconds.
When she opened them, she walked to the boy and crouched down in front of him, her silk dress pooling on the floor, her pearls swinging forward.
"How old are you, Thomas?"
"Ten.
My brothers are eight, six, and four."
"Where have you been living?"
"With our mother.
In Portland.
She d*ed eight months ago." He said it the way children say hard things — plainly, because they have already said it many times and the saying of it has worn a smooth path.
"After that, we went to foster care.
Dr.
Voss found us."
Margaret's hand came up slowly and touched the boy's face.
Behind her, she heard Claire make a small sound.
She didn't turn around.
"You look like him," Margaret whispered.
"You look exactly like Daniel."
Thomas didn't look away.
"He told us about you.
He said you were the best person in the family."
Something moved across Margaret's face that wasn't grief and wasn't joy and wasn't anger.
It was all three at once, compressed into a single expression that had no name.
She stood up.
Turned around.
Richard and Claire were watching her from across the room.
Richard's face had settled into something careful and controlled.
Claire's had not.
Margaret held up the envelope.
"I'm going to open this.
And then we are going to have a conversation that is long overdue." She looked at Claire.
"All of us."
May you like
Claire reached for Richard's arm.
He stepped away from her hand.
