Chapter 6: What Diane Did Next
By ten o'clock the following morning, three things had happened.
Diane had retained Richard Holt officially.
A letter from his office arrived at Mrs.
Johnson's attorney by nine forty-five, disputing the authenticity of the transcript and questioning the credibility of the retired HR director.
It was four pages long and very expensive-looking.
A mutual acquaintance of Diane's had called two of Mrs.
Johnson's longest-standing event clients to mention, in passing, that Mrs.
Johnson was involved in an ongoing legal dispute and that her professional judgment might be compromised.
And Cassandra had shown up at Claire's apartment at eight in the morning with a paper bag of pastries and a flash drive.
Claire opened the door in her dressing gown.
She looked at the flash drive first.
"What's on it?"
"My mother keeps a home office," Cassandra said.
"She has for thirty years.
She doesn't trust cloud storage.
Everything is local." She held up the drive.
"I've been her IT support since I was sixteen.
I know every folder on that machine."
Claire stepped back from the door.
Cassandra came in and set the pastries on the kitchen counter without being asked where to put them.
She sat at the table and opened her laptop.
"I'm not a lawyer," she said.
"I don't know what's usable and what isn't.
But there are emails going back to 2001.
There are contact lists.
There are calendar entries." She looked up.
"There's a folder called *Professional Correspondence* that has forty-seven subfolders.
One of them is labeled with your name."
Claire sat down slowly across from her.
"My name."
"Your full name.
Claire Margaret Johnson." Cassandra turned the laptop so Claire could see the screen.
"It was created in February 2001.
Six weeks before your interview."
The folder was there on the screen.
Claire stared at it.
"She was tracking me," Claire said.
"Before the interview.
She already knew who I was."
"It looks that way."
"That means it wasn't impulsive.
It wasn't just protecting her niece in the moment." Claire's voice was very quiet.
"She planned it."
"Yes."
Claire stood up and walked to the window.
She stood there with her back to Cassandra for a long moment.
"My mother needs to see this," she said.
"I know.
I came to you first because—" Cassandra stopped.
"Because?"
"Because it's your name on the folder.
It should be your decision what happens next."
Claire turned around.
She looked at Cassandra the way you look at someone when you're recalibrating everything you thought you knew about them.
"Why are you doing this?" Claire asked.
"She's your mother."
"She's my mother," Cassandra agreed.
"And she followed a twenty-six-year-old woman across three job applications and took everything from her.
Those two things are both true." She closed the laptop.
"I can love her and still refuse to protect her from what she did."
Claire's phone rang.
She glanced at it — her mother's name — and answered immediately.
"Mum.
Cassandra is here.
You need to come over." A pause.
"No, now.
Bring David." Another pause.
"Because we have something that changes everything.
Just come."
She hung up and looked at Cassandra.
"David is our attorney," she said.
"I figured."
"He's going to want to know how you accessed the files."
Cassandra nodded slowly.
"I know.
I've been thinking about that since six this morning." She reached into her bag and produced a second envelope — smaller than the one from the night before.
"My mother gave me power of attorney over her personal affairs two years ago.
After her health scare." She set the envelope on the table.
"I'm not sure if that covers this.
But it's something."
Claire looked at the envelope.
She looked at Cassandra.
"You came prepared."
"I came scared," Cassandra said.
"But yes.
Prepared."
Outside, a car turned onto the street.
Through the window, Claire watched it slow and park.
Her mother stepped out first, moving quickly, her pink blouse replaced today by a charcoal jacket, her face set with the same quiet determination that had held steady through an entire garden full of witnesses the night before.
Behind her, a tall man in his fifties climbed out of the passenger side, already reaching for his phone.
Cassandra watched them come up the front path.
"Is she always like that?" she asked.
"That calm?"
"No," Claire said.
"She's terrified.
May you like
She just doesn't let it show until it's over." She moved toward the door.
"Neither do I."
