Chapter 3: Ask Her About 1987
Daniel crossed the ballroom in twelve steps.
He counted them without meaning to.
His mind needed something to hold onto.
Claire watched him come.
She didn't step back.
She lifted her champagne glass and took a slow sip, like a woman who had been waiting for this moment for a very long time.
"Who is Michael?" Daniel said.
The glass stopped halfway down.
Derek moved first.
"Daniel, this isn't the place—"
"I didn't ask you." Daniel kept his eyes on Claire.
"Who is Michael, and why was his name removed from Father's documents?"
The room was still pretending not to listen.
Two hundred people suddenly very interested in their shoes.
Claire set her glass on the nearest table.
When she looked up, the smile was gone.
What replaced it was something Daniel had never seen on his sister's face before.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Something older than both.
"Where did you hear that name?" she said quietly.
"Someone called me.
Just now."
"Who?"
"I don't know.
But they knew about 1987.
They knew about the documents." Daniel lowered his voice.
"They knew about you, Claire."
Derek put his hand on Claire's arm again.
Firmer this time.
"We should take this outside," Derek said.
"We should take this nowhere," Daniel said.
"Answer the question."
Claire looked at Derek.
Something passed between them — a decision being made without words.
Then Claire turned back to Daniel and said, "Michael was your father's son.
From before your mother.
Before any of us."
The chandelier light didn't change.
The music from the far end of the room kept playing.
But Daniel felt the floor shift under him like something structural had just given way.
"That's not possible," he said.
"It is.
It was.
Your father buried it.
Paid to have it buried." Claire's voice was flat now, like she was reading from a document she had memorized long ago.
"Michael was twenty-two years older than you.
He had a legal claim to the estate.
Your father spent thirty years making sure no one would ever find that out."
"And you knew."
"I've known since I was nineteen."
Daniel stared at her.
"And you never told me."
"I was told not to."
"By who?"
Claire picked up her champagne glass again.
Her hand was steady.
"By the same man who set up those microphones tonight."
Daniel went very still.
"What microphones?"
Claire's eyes moved — just briefly — to the floral arrangement on the table beside them.
A small, deliberate glance.
Then back to Daniel.
"You didn't set them up," she said.
"Did you."
It wasn't a question.
Daniel turned slowly and looked at the flowers.
White roses and eucalyptus.
Lily had chosen them herself.
He had watched the florist arrange them that morning.
He reached into the centerpiece and found it in four seconds.
A small black device, no larger than a coat button, pressed into the foam base beneath the stems.
He set it on the table between them.
Claire looked at it.
Then at Daniel.
Then at Derek.
Derek's face had gone the color of old paper.
May you like
"Someone else is in this room," Claire said.
"And they've been listening to everything."
