Chapter 7: Sunday Lunch
Gareth lived in a large house on the edge of a village, the kind of house that announced its owner's success without quite shouting.
Stone walls.
Gravel drive.
A gardener who worked Saturdays.
I arrived alone.
David had wanted to come.
I had said no.
Gareth met me at the door with both arms open.
"There she is." He pulled me into a hug that lasted a beat too long.
"I feel like I haven't seen you properly in months."
"It's been busy," I said.
The kitchen smelled of a roast.
He poured wine without asking and set a glass in front of me and leaned against the counter with his own glass, completely at ease.
"So," he said.
"What's this about a houseguest?"
"An old family connection," I said.
"It's a long story."
"I've got time."
I looked at him across the kitchen.
The gold ring.
The easy smile.
The eyes that were always slightly ahead of whatever he was saying.
"Actually," I said, "I've been going through some of my father's old papers.
Trying to understand the business better.
I never really did, when I was younger."
Something shifted in his face.
Almost nothing.
A slight settling.
"That must be difficult," he said.
"Bringing all that back."
"It is.
I found some things I didn't understand.
Property transfers, mostly.
Do you remember the Aldren-Voss portfolio?
The joint holdings from the early 2000s?"
He took a sip of wine.
"Vaguely.
It was a long time ago."
"Some of the transfers look unusual to me.
The signatures don't quite match my father's other documents from that period."
He set his glass down.
"Natty, those records are over twenty years old.
I'm not sure what you think you're seeing, but property transfers are complicated.
There are all sorts of reasons signatures vary."
"Of course," I said.
"I'm probably misreading it."
He relaxed.
Visibly.
His shoulders dropped a fraction.
"I'll tell you what," he said.
"Why don't you bring whatever you've found and I'll have a look?
I knew your father's business better than anyone.
I can probably explain anything that looks confusing."
"That's kind," I said.
"Thank you."
We ate lunch.
He talked about a development project he was working on, a trip he was planning, a mutual acquaintance's retirement.
He was warm and funny and completely present.
He refilled my glass.
He asked about David.
He asked if we were thinking about children.
I answered every question.
I laughed in the right places.
I let him think the lunch was exactly what it looked like.
When I stood to leave, he walked me to my car.
He put his hand on my shoulder.
"It's good to see you, Natty.
Your father would be so proud of who you've become."
I looked at him.
"Do you think about him much?" I asked.
"Every day," he said.
Without hesitation.
With complete sincerity.
I got in the car.
I drove to the end of his road.
I pulled over and sat there for a moment with both hands on the wheel.
Then I took out my phone and opened the recording app.
The entire lunch was there.
Forty-seven minutes.
Including the moment he offered to look at the documents — documents he had claimed, three days earlier on the phone, he had no memory of.
I sent the file to Calloway.
She called back within the hour.
"The warrant came through this morning," she said.
"Financial records, company filings, and the original fire investigation archive.
We execute tomorrow."
"Does he know?"
"Not yet."
I started the car.
"One more thing," Calloway said.
"Your mother's formal statement — we took it this morning.
She remembered the argument clearly.
She remembered the threat clearly.
And she remembered one more thing she hadn't mentioned before."
"What?"
"She went back into the kitchen after Gareth left.
Your father was on the phone.
She heard him say — and these are her exact words — *'If anything happens to me, Gareth Aldren did it.
Make sure Natty knows.'*"
I sat very still.
"He knew," I said.
"He knew what was coming and he still couldn't stop it."
"He couldn't stop it," Calloway said.
"But he made sure someone would hear it.
The person he called that morning — we've traced the number.
It was Aldous Fenn."
The solicitor.
The envelope.
The sealed instructions left for a daughter who took twenty-three years to come asking.
My father had known.
He had done everything he could.
And then he had trusted that eventually, I would find my way to the truth.
I drove home in the dark and walked straight upstairs and knocked on Mae's door.
She opened it.
I stood in the doorway and looked at her face — my mother's face, older and worn and still somehow exactly as I had always carried it — and I said the only thing I could think of.
"He tried to protect us," I said.
"Right up until the end.
He tried."
May you like
She opened her arms.
And I walked in.
