Chapter 4: What Meredith Knew
The dispatcher kept me on the line.
Twelve minutes, she said.
Maybe ten.
I walked back to the kitchen.
Gerald Foss came inside and stood near the door without being asked to sit.
Meredith was at the counter with her arms crossed over her chest, staring at the envelope in my hand.
"You knew about the guardianship document," I said.
It wasn't a question.
She closed her eyes.
"Meredith."
"He told me it was a formality," she said.
"He said it was for estate planning.
In case something happened to both of us."
"And you believed that."
She opened her eyes.
"I wanted to believe it."
"There's a difference," I said, "between wanting to believe something and looking the other way."
"Harrison—"
"She told you about a bruise.
You told her she fell."
The words landed.
Meredith's chin dropped.
Chloe was sitting at the kitchen table.
She wasn't looking at her mother.
She was looking at her own hands, flat on the table in front of her, like she was checking to make sure they were still there.
"Chloe," Meredith said.
Her voice broke on the second syllable.
Chloe didn't look up.
"Baby, I—"
"She doesn't have to talk to you right now," I said.
Meredith looked at me with something raw and ruined in her face.
"She's my daughter."
"Then act like it.
Sit down and stop making this about what you need."
She sat.
Gerald cleared his throat from near the door.
"Mr.
Vance.
The other three names in that envelope.
Two of them are connected to the school."
The room went very quiet.
"What do you mean, connected to the school?"
"One is a board member.
One is a former administrator who now runs the foundation that funds the music program." He paused.
"The recital tonight is a foundation event."
I looked at Chloe.
She was still looking at her hands.
"Chloe," I said quietly.
"The recital.
Were there other men there?
Men who were — like Grandpa Richard?"
She was quiet for a long moment.
Then she said, "There was one who always helped carry the piano bench."
My jaw tightened.
"Do you remember his name?"
"Mr.
Aldren," she said.
"He smelled like the same soap as Grandpa."
I opened the envelope.
The third name on the list was Dennis Aldren.
Foundation Director, Harwick School of Music.
Gerald was watching me.
"I should have come forward sooner," he said.
"I told myself I needed to be certain.
I told myself I needed more—"
"You told yourself a lot of things," I said.
"We can talk about that later."
Outside, a car door opened.
Then footsteps on the porch.
Then Richard Calloway knocked on his own daughter's front door like a man who had never once been told no.
Three slow, deliberate knocks.
Different from before.
Heavier.
Impatient.
Chloe's hands pressed flat against the table.
"He knows something's wrong," she whispered.
"He always knows."
I put the envelope on the counter, face down.
"Gerald," I said.
"Go stand in the hallway where he can see you when I open the door."
Gerald moved without asking why.
I looked at Meredith.
"Take Chloe upstairs.
Lock the bedroom door.
Do not open it until I come for you."
"Harrison—"
"This is the one thing I'm asking you to do right.
Please."
She stood.
She reached for Chloe's hand.
Chloe looked at her mother's hand for a moment — just a moment — and then she took it.
They went upstairs.
I waited until I heard the lock click.
Then I went to the front door and opened it.
Richard Calloway stood on my porch in his good jacket, his silver cufflinks catching the porch light.
He was sixty-four years old and he looked like a man who had spent sixty-four years being given exactly what he wanted.
He looked past me into the house.
"Where's Meredith?" he said.
"Where's Chloe?
We're going to miss the opening."
"They're not coming tonight," I said.
His eyes came back to mine.
Something moved behind them.
Not surprise.
Assessment.
"Harrison." His voice was patient.
Practiced.
"I don't know what Meredith has said to you, but whatever it is, I think we should sit down like adults and—"
"Gerald," I said.
May you like
Richard saw his own attorney standing in the hallway.
The patient look disappeared.
