Chapter 9: Monday Morning
Mr.
Delaney called on Thursday.
I was at my desk when my phone lit up.
I stepped into the hallway and closed the conference room door behind me.
"Raymond's attorney contacted us this morning," he said.
"And?"
"He's contesting the transfer reversal.
His position is that the original transaction was legally completed before your mother filed the reversal, and that her documentation of the surveillance and recordings may not meet the evidentiary standard required in a civil property dispute."
I leaned against the hallway wall.
"What does that mean for us?"
"It means he's going to fight," Mr.
Delaney said.
"He has to.
If he doesn't contest it, the transfer stands reversed and he receives nothing.
He has more to gain from litigation than from acceptance."
"What are his chances?"
A pause.
"Not strong.
The recordings are clean.
The document trail is clear.
Your mother kept exceptional records over the course of three weeks.
But Raymond's attorney is experienced and he'll file motions to delay and to challenge the recordings' admissibility.
We should expect this to take several months."
"Does my mother know?"
"I called her first," he said.
"She said, and I'm quoting here, 'Tell Ethan not to worry.
I've been waiting longer than this before.'"
I almost smiled.
"What do we need from me?" I asked.
"Your signature on one additional document authorizing me to act on behalf of the estate in this matter alongside your mother.
I'll send it this afternoon."
"Send it now," I said.
"I'll sign before end of day."
"There's one more thing," Mr.
Delaney said.
"Harold Whitmore's attorney has also been in contact.
Harold is offering a full written statement — a sworn account of his interactions with Raymond, including dates, conversation summaries, and the terms Raymond described to him at the time.
He's offering it voluntarily, in exchange for being removed as a named party in any civil proceeding your mother may bring."
I was quiet for a moment.
"What does Mom think?"
"She said she would accept his statement and consider the terms.
She asked me to discuss it with you before she committed."
I thought about what Vanessa had said.
*He's a foolish man.
He's not a cruel one.* I thought about the pale face, the careful jacket-straightening, the voice on the recording asking Raymond whether Vanessa knew.
The question of a man who had limits, even if he couldn't find them fast enough.
"Tell Mr.
Whitmore we'll accept his statement," I said.
"And have him include everything.
If Raymond's attorney tries to challenge the recordings, I want Harold's sworn account as the second wall."
"Understood."
I went back into my meeting.
The document arrived at 2:15.
I signed it at 2:18 and sent it back.
At 4:30, my mother called.
"Delaney told me about Harold," she said.
"Are you all right with it?"
"It was the correct decision," she said.
"Harold made a bad choice with someone who lied to him.
Raymond made the bad choice and lied to everyone." She paused.
"There's a difference."
"Vanessa said something similar," I said.
"About her father."
A brief quiet on the line.
"How are you?" she asked.
"I'm all right."
"That isn't what I asked."
I looked out the window of my office at the street below.
A Thursday afternoon.
People moving in ordinary directions with ordinary intentions.
"I miss who I thought she was," I said.
"I'm not sure yet how to separate that from who she actually is."
"That takes time," my mother said.
"It took me two years after your father died to stop setting his coffee cup out in the morning without thinking."
"That's different."
"It's the same muscle," she said.
"You'll know when it's healed because you'll stop noticing."
I didn't have a response for that.
So I just said, "Thank you, Mom."
"Come to dinner on Sunday," she said.
"I'm making the pot roast."
"I'll be there."
We hung up.
I sat at my desk until the office emptied around me.
Then I turned off my lamp and sat in the near-dark for a few minutes before I got up, put on my coat, and walked out.
The Calloway Street building was four blocks from my office.
I hadn't planned to walk past it.
But I did.
It was a plain brick building.
Three stories.
The ground floor had been a florist for as long as I could remember, and the florist's closed sign was already in the window.
The upper windows were lit.
Someone was still working late.
My father had bought this building the year I was born.
My mother had kept it for thirty-one years.
And Raymond had looked at it and seen something that could be taken.
May you like
I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at the lit windows for a moment.
Then I walked home.
