Chapter 9: The Weight of What He Did
Richard Hargrove was formally charged on a Thursday.
Clara was not there for the charging.
She was at the hospital, in a waiting room on the third floor, with Diane and Margaret, drinking bad coffee from a machine and not talking very much.
They had been told Emily was awake.
They had been told she was asking questions — clear, specific questions, which the doctor said was a very good sign.
They had been told she could have visitors in the afternoon.
The morning passed slowly.
At some point Margaret bought a sandwich from the trolley and didn't eat it.
At some point Diane fell asleep in her chair with her head tilted back and her hand still curled around her cup.
At some point Clara went to the window and looked out at the city going about its ordinary business — taxis, pigeons, a woman pushing a pram — and felt the strangeness of ordinary things.
At half past two, a nurse came to the door.
"She's ready," the nurse said.
They went in together.
Emily was sitting up.
She was still pale, still thin, with the particular fragility of someone whose body had been managed rather than cared for.
But her eyes were clear, and when she saw Margaret in the doorway, something in her face broke open in a way that had nothing to do with weakness.
"You came," Emily said.
"I came to the funeral too," Margaret said.
Her voice was rough.
"I was too frightened to do what I should have done."
"I know." Emily held out her hand.
"I know.
Come here."
Margaret crossed the room and took her sister's hand and they stayed like that for a long moment — not speaking, not needing to.
Clara stood near the door.
Diane stood beside her.
Eventually Emily looked at them both.
"Clara," she said.
"They told me about the coffin."
"Yes."
"They told me you heard her."
"Yes."
Emily looked at her steadily.
"You've worked in my house for eleven years and I never once asked you if you were all right."
Clara felt something shift in her chest.
"You were always kind, Mrs.
Hargrove."
"I was distracted," Emily said.
"There's a difference." She looked at Diane.
"And you.
I'm sorry for what he did to you."
"He did it to both of us," Diane said.
"Yes.
But you were in a box." Emily said it plainly, without flinching.
"I was in a clinic.
You had the harder version."
Diane shook her head.
"We both survived."
"We did." Emily looked down at her hands — thin, hospital-pale.
"What's happening with Richard?"
"He was charged this morning," Clara said.
"Marsh called me an hour ago.
Fraud, unlawful imprisonment, conspiracy — and they're looking at Alderton separately.
Phillip has already agreed to cooperate with the investigation in exchange for reduced charges."
Emily closed her eyes briefly.
"Phillip," she said.
"He always did what Richard told him."
"Not anymore," Clara said.
Emily opened her eyes.
"The property?" she asked.
"The transfers are being challenged.
Your solicitor — the one Margaret contacted — says the documentation Emily provided makes the case very strong." Clara paused.
"Your solicitor.
I keep saying your.
I mean—"
"I know what you mean." Emily almost smiled.
"It's all right.
I'm still here to sort it out."
The afternoon light came through the hospital window at a low angle, catching the edge of the blanket, the rim of the water glass, the silver in Margaret's hair.
Diane sat down in the chair beside the bed.
Margaret had not let go of Emily's hand.
Clara stayed near the door — not because she didn't belong, but because she was the kind of person who understood the difference between being part of something and being at the center of it, and she had always been more comfortable with the former.
"Clara," Emily said.
"Yes."
May you like
"Sit down."
Clara sat down.
