Chapter 4: Eight Months of Notes
Claudia didn't leave.
Richard had expected defiance.
He hadn't expected her to simply pour herself another glass of wine — from a new bottle she retrieved from the kitchen — and sit down at the dining table as though the conversation had concluded in her favor.
"Sit down, Richard," she said.
"Since we're all being honest tonight."
Richard remained standing.
He shifted Ethan slightly in his arms.
"I don't need to sit."
"No.
But you might want to, once I tell you what I know about your son."
Mark went rigid.
Claudia set her glass down and folded her hands.
"Mark came to me, you know.
Not the other way around.
He pursued me for seven months before I agreed to a single dinner.
I have every message.
Every voicemail." She tilted her head.
"He told me his father was a cold, controlling man who had driven his mother out of the family.
He told me he wanted a wife who wouldn't be managed by the Whitaker name." She smiled.
"I was exactly what he asked for."
Richard looked at his son.
Mark's face was red.
"That's not — I was angry back then.
Things were different—"
"Were they?" Claudia asked.
"I was twenty-eight.
I said things I didn't mean."
"You said things you meant very much at the time.
You only stopped meaning them when your father showed up with a deed and a lawyer."
The room was quiet for a moment.
Richard spoke first.
"Whatever Mark said about me eight years ago doesn't change what I saw tonight.
It doesn't change what Mrs.
Holt documented."
"Patricia Holt is a seventy-year-old woman who has nothing better to do than watch other people's gardens." Claudia's voice stayed smooth.
"Her notes won't hold up to anything.
She can't prove intent.
She can't prove harm.
A child left outside in cool weather is not a crime.
Inconvenient, perhaps.
Unpleasant.
But not a crime."
"He was barefoot.
In November.
For nine hours."
"He was in the garden.
There's a covered area."
"He was shaking."
"Children exaggerate discomfort."
Richard stared at her.
He had met people like Claudia before.
Not many.
But enough to know that arguing facts with them was a waste of time.
They didn't process facts the way other people did.
They processed leverage.
He changed direction.
"What do you want, Claudia?"
She blinked.
She hadn't expected that.
"I beg your pardon?"
"You didn't sit back down to fight.
You sat back down to negotiate.
So tell me what you want."
She studied him for a moment.
Then, almost imperceptibly, her posture shifted.
The performance relaxed by one degree.
"I want what I'm owed," she said.
"I've given four years to this family.
I've run this household.
I've managed Mark's social obligations, his calendar, his professional image.
I want that recognized."
"Financially."
"Yes."
"And in exchange?"
She picked up her wine glass again.
"In exchange, I make this very simple for everyone.
No contested filing.
No counter-claims.
No lengthy legal process that will be very public and very uncomfortable for the Whitaker name." She looked at Richard steadily.
"I know things about this family that have nothing to do with a deed or a neighbor's diary."
Mark stood up.
"Claudia—"
"Sit down, Mark."
He sat.
Richard noticed that.
He filed it away.
"What things?" Richard asked.
"Things your son told me.
In confidence.
Over four years." She set the glass down again.
"I'd prefer not to use them.
But I will, if I have to."
Richard was quiet for a long moment.
Then he said, "Gerald."
Claudia frowned.
"What?"
Richard held up his phone.
The call timer on the screen read forty-one minutes and seventeen seconds.
Gerald's voice came through the speaker.
"I heard everything, Richard."
Claudia's face went white.
"Attempted extortion," Gerald said.
"That's what we'll call it in the filing.
I've been recording since you sat back down, Mrs.
Whitaker.
The timestamp will hold."
Claudia stood up.
The wine glass tipped.
Neither man moved to catch it.
"That's not legal," she said.
"You can't just—"
"One-party consent," Gerald said.
"Richard consented.
That's sufficient in this state."
She looked at the phone.
She looked at Richard.
She looked at Mark, who was staring at the table.
"Mark." Her voice had lost its smoothness.
May you like
"Mark, look at me."
He didn't.
