Chapter 8: What His Mother Did Not See Coming
She came three days later.
Not my husband.
His mother.
She rang the bell at Carol's house at two in the afternoon, and when I opened the door she was dressed as though she were attending a luncheon.
Handbag on her arm.
Hair set.
Lipstick perfect.
The smirk from the night in her living room was gone, replaced by an expression of measured reasonableness that must have taken years to perfect.
"I think it's time we spoke privately," she said.
"Woman to woman."
"Ruth is inside," I said.
"And Carol.
We can speak here at the door, or you're welcome to come in and speak in front of them."
Something moved across her face.
She chose the doorstep.
"I understand you've been upset," she said.
"What happened the other night was unfortunate.
My son has a temper.
I've always known that.
But what you've done since then—" She paused, recomposed.
"There is a great deal at stake for many people.
I think, if we are both reasonable, we can find a resolution that protects everyone."
"What kind of resolution?" I said.
She opened her handbag and removed an envelope.
Cream-colored.
Thick.
She held it out.
"A settlement.
Generous.
In exchange for the documents and the drive being returned and no further action taken." She met my eyes.
"I can make the last four years very difficult to prove.
I have resources you don't.
I have people who will say what is necessary.
I am offering you an exit that leaves you comfortable.
I would take it."
I looked at the envelope.
I looked at her hand holding it.
I thought about the photographs in her basement.
The one of me at twenty-three, standing outside my first apartment, laughing at something, completely unaware that I was already being watched.
I thought about Diane, sleeping in Carol's second guest room, who had spent two years trying to get into that basement.
I thought about a woman in Portland who still didn't know.
"No," I said.
Her hand didn't lower.
"I'd encourage you to think carefully."
"I have," I said.
"The answer is no."
She lowered the envelope slowly.
The reasonableness drained from her expression like water from a cracked glass.
What was underneath was not anger.
It was something older and colder than anger.
"You have no idea who you're dealing with," she said quietly.
"Ruth," I said.
Ruth appeared at my side.
She was holding her own phone, and this time it was not showing an email.
It was showing a live call.
"Mrs.
Calloway," Ruth said pleasantly, "I should let you know that Detective Mercer from the financial crimes division has been listening to this conversation for the last four minutes.
He has a few questions he'd like to ask you at your convenience." She tilted the phone slightly.
"He says this afternoon would work well for him."
His mother looked at the phone.
For the first time since I had known her, she had nothing to say.
The handbag dropped slightly on her arm.
The cream-colored envelope bent where her grip tightened on it.
The lipstick and the set hair and the luncheon clothes suddenly looked like a costume worn by someone who had forgotten what play they were in.
"I'd like to call my lawyer," she said.
"Of course," Ruth said.
"Detective Mercer will give you the address."
His mother walked back to her car without another word.
She sat behind the wheel for a long moment before she started the engine.
I watched from the doorstep until her car turned out of the street.
Carol handed me a cup of tea from behind me.
I took it with both hands.
"Is it over?" I said.
"The worst of it," Ruth said.
She was already typing.
"But we still have work to do."
"I know," I said.
May you like
I looked down at the tea.
"I just needed to hear someone say it."
