Chapter 5: The Brother Knew
"When did she call you?" Thomas said.
"Thomas — "
"When."
A breath on the other end.
"About twenty minutes ago."
Twenty minutes.
Before Thomas had even finished the conversation downstairs.
While Dolores was still walking his daughter up the stairs.
"What did she say?"
"She said you'd found something.
That you were upset and not thinking clearly and that I should — " His brother stopped.
"That you should what, Martin?"
"That I should remind you of the agreement."
Thomas sat down on the edge of the ottoman — the same one his daughter had been sitting on when this started.
The picture book was still on the floor where it had slid when she pressed herself against the wall.
He hadn't noticed it until now.
"There is no agreement," Thomas said.
"I know that."
"Then why did you let her think there was?"
Silence.
"Martin."
"Because she was — " Another stop.
"She was very convincing, Thomas.
In the beginning.
You know how she was in the beginning."
"I need you to tell me exactly what you witnessed.
Every conversation.
Every meeting.
Everything she could use."
"It wasn't — none of it was formal.
It was just — she would say things in front of me.
Things that sounded reasonable at the time.
About the house, about the arrangements, about what you'd discussed.
And I didn't correct her because I assumed you'd told her those things."
"I didn't."
"I know that now."
Thomas looked at the picture book on the floor.
The cover showed a rabbit in a yellow coat standing in a garden.
His wife had bought it.
He remembered the afternoon she brought it home — the way she'd read the first page out loud in the kitchen while their daughter sat on the counter eating an apple, both of them laughing at the rabbit's expression.
He picked it up and set it on the ottoman.
"She's been building something," Thomas said.
"For months.
She's been putting pieces in place."
"What kind of pieces?"
"I don't know yet.
But she mentioned my attorney.
She said he was present at conversations.
She said she kept notes."
Martin was quiet for a moment.
"Do you think she actually has documentation?"
"I think she's careful enough to have something.
I don't know how much."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to find out what she has before she decides to use it." Thomas stood.
"I need you to write down everything you remember.
Every conversation she was present for.
Every time she said something about arrangements or agreements.
Dates if you have them."
"All right."
"Tonight, Martin.
Not tomorrow."
"All right.
Thomas — is Lily okay?"
The name landed differently than it had in months.
His daughter's name, said plainly, by someone who loved her.
"She's upstairs," Thomas said.
"Dolores is with her."
"That's good.
Dolores is — she's good."
"Yes," Thomas said.
"She is."
He ended the call.
He stood in the sitting room for a moment longer, thinking.
Then he went to the small writing desk near the window — the one that had been his wife's — and opened the bottom drawer.
Underneath a stack of old correspondence, he found what he was looking for.
A spare key to the house.
The one he had given Renata the week she moved in.
He held it in his palm.
Then he went upstairs, knocked once on the locked door, and said quietly, "It's me."
The lock turned.
Dolores opened the door six inches and looked at him.
Behind her, on the bed, Lily was sitting with her knees drawn up, the rabbit book open in her lap — she must have brought it up herself, or Dolores had gone back for it.
She looked up at him.
"Can I come in?" he said.
She nodded.
He sat on the edge of the bed beside her.
Dolores moved to the chair in the corner and said nothing.
"Lily," he said.
"I need to ask you something, and I need you to tell me the truth.
Can you do that?"
She looked at him steadily.
The same look she'd had downstairs — older than six, more careful than it should have been.
"Has she ever hurt you?" he said.
"Not scared you.
Not been mean.
Hurt you."
Lily was quiet for a moment.
Then she pulled up the sleeve of her cardigan.
On the inside of her forearm, faded to yellow-green at the edges, was a bruise the size of a thumb.
Dolores made a sound from the corner of the room.
Just one sound.
Then she was quiet again.
Thomas looked at his daughter's arm for a long time.
"How long ago?" he said.
"Last week," Lily said.
"She grabbed me.
Because I went into her room."
"Why did you go into her room?"
Lily reached under her pillow and pulled out a small photograph.
Creased at the corner, slightly blurred — a phone photo printed on plain paper.
She held it out to him.
He took it.
It was a picture of Renata.
Sitting at a table in what looked like a restaurant.
Across from her was a man Thomas did not recognize.
Between them on the table was a folder, open, with papers visible inside.
May you like
At the bottom of the photo, in the same careful crayon handwriting as the drawing, Lily had written one word.
*Secret.*
