Chapter 5: Controlled Burn
Clara arrived at eleven.
I had called her after Douglas Fenn, and I had told her enough — not everything, just enough.
She walked through the front door with her coat still on and pulled me into a hug that lasted longer than either of us planned.
"How are you standing upright?" she said into my hair.
"I don't entirely know," I said.
She pulled back and looked at me.
Clara was four years younger than me and had always been the more openly emotional one — she cried at commercials, at weddings, at any dog in any film, without apology.
But right now her eyes were dry and her expression was the one she used when things needed doing.
"What do you need from me today?" she said.
"I need a witness," I said.
"An attorney is coming this afternoon.
I need someone in this house who is on my side."
She took her coat off and hung it on the hook by the door — my hook, the one Sabrina had relocated twice and I had moved back twice — and said, "Then I'm staying."
Garrick came downstairs at noon.
He saw Clara at the kitchen table and stopped.
"Clara," he said carefully.
"Garrick," she replied, with a smile that gave him absolutely nothing.
He looked at me.
"I didn't know you were having company."
"She's not company," I said.
"She's family."
Something moved across his face — a recalculation.
He poured himself a glass of water and stood at the counter.
"Mom," he said, his voice measured now, almost gentle, "I've been thinking about this morning.
The account situation — I should have been more transparent.
I can see that.
Things got complicated after Dad passed, and I handled it badly.
I want to make it right."
Clara's hands were wrapped around her coffee mug.
She didn't look at me.
"How?" I asked.
"I can set up a repayment plan.
Whatever makes you comfortable.
I just think we should handle this privately, as a family, without involving—" he paused, choosing the word carefully, "—outside parties."
"Outside parties," I repeated.
"Lawyers.
Banks.
That kind of thing.
It would only make everything messier and harder for everyone." He set his glass down.
"I love you, Mom.
This family has already been through enough."
I looked at my son.
He was forty-one years old, and he had his father's eyes — that same dark, direct gaze that had once made me feel so safe.
He had learned, somewhere along the way, to use it differently than Julian had.
"Garrick," I said, "where did the money go?"
A slight tightening around his mouth.
"I told you.
Bills.
Some investments that didn't—"
"One hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars," I said.
The glass was still on the counter.
His hand moved toward it and then stopped.
"What did you say?"
"Including the business account you and your father opened four years ago.
The one you've been withdrawing from for two years." I kept my voice level.
"One hundred and thirty-six thousand dollars.
Your father knew, Garrick.
He knew before he was gone."
The color left his face in a way that was almost fascinating to watch.
"That's not—" He stopped.
Started again.
"Who told you about the business account?"
"Your father did."
Silence.
Clara set her mug down without a sound.
"Dad's been gone for fourteen months," Garrick said slowly.
"Yes," I said.
"He planned ahead."
Garrick stood very still.
Then something shifted in his expression — the gentleness dropped away, cleanly, like a mask removed in private.
"You have no idea what you're doing," he said.
His voice was quiet but the warmth was entirely gone.
"You're sixty-five years old, you've been alone for over a year, and someone has been feeding you information to turn you against your own son.
I don't know who it is yet, but I will find out."
"The attorney arrives at two o'clock," I said.
He stared at me.
May you like
"You should probably tell Sabrina," I added.
"She'll want to be present."
