Chapter 8 - What Ethan Finally Asked Lauren
Ethan went back to the apartment that night.
Not to reconcile.
To ask questions.
Daniel offered to go.
Ethan said no.
I approved.
Not verbally.
I was learning that approval was another form of involvement he no longer needed from me.
At 8:40, he called.
“She’s here.”
“Lauren?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t need to report every step to me.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you calling?”
He paused.
“Because I’m scared I’m going to believe whatever explanation lets this hurt less.”
That was honest enough to deserve an answer.
“Ask questions that require facts.”
“Like what?”
“Dates. Amounts. Who did what. Where documents came from.”
“And if she cries?”
“You are allowed to care that she is crying and still ask the next question.”
Silence.
“Okay.”
“Ethan?”
“Yes?”
“Do not threaten.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not yell.”
“I won’t.”
“Do not promise anything.”
“I won’t.”
“And do not ask whether she loves you.”
He was quiet.
“Why?”
“Because love is the easiest question to answer without evidence.”
He exhaled slowly.
“Good night, Grandma.”
“Good luck.”
Two hours passed.
At eleven, he called again.
His voice sounded empty.
“I know where the papers came from.”
I sat up in bed.
“Where?”
“Your office.”
“Lauren admitted it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She copied them.”
“When?”
“Different times.”
“Why?”
“Denise asked her to.”
Of course.
I hated how predictable the answer had become.
“Did Lauren know why?”
“She says her mother wanted to help us plan.”
“Plan what?”
“Our future.”
I laughed once.
“Using my brokerage statement?”
“She knows how it sounds.”
“She knew how it looked while standing at my copier.”
He did not defend her.
That mattered.
“What did you ask next?”
“How they got the will.”
“And?”
He went quiet.
“Ethan.”
“Lauren took it from your safe.”
I stood.
“My safe?”
“She knew the code.”
“How?”
“Your birthday.”
My stomach dropped.
The code was Robert’s birthday.
Lauren knew that too.
Family knew.
People knew.
Security built from sentiment was barely security at all.
“She opened my safe?”
“Yes.”
“How long ago?”
“Last Christmas.”
I sat back down.
“She stole from my safe.”
“She says she only copied it.”
“She removed property from a locked container without permission. Returning it after copying does not improve the verbs.”
“I know.”
“What else?”
“The signature pages.”
I waited.
“She admits she scanned one.”
“For the venue?”
“Yes.”
“And the others?”
“She says Denise created them.”
“Using Lauren’s scan.”
“Yes.”
“Did Lauren know?”
A pause.
“Not at first.”
“And later?”
“She knew about two.”
I closed my eyes.
There it was.
Not innocent.
Not fully architect.
Participant.
“What was the twenty-four thousand five hundred transfer?”
“She was going to pay Denise.”
“For what?”
“The loan.”
“That does not equal thirty-eight.”
“Denise agreed to forgive part of it if Lauren paid before the ceremony.”
“With your shared wedding account.”
“Yes.”
“Without telling you.”
“Yes.”
I could hear how much each word cost him.
“Did you ask about the slap?”
“Yes.”
“What did she say?”
“She said she wanted you to stop talking.”
I swallowed.
No stress.
No instinct.
No accident.
A decision.
Brief.
Ugly.
Real.
“What did you say?”
“That I couldn’t marry someone who thought hitting my grandmother was a way to end a conversation.”
I stared into the dark bedroom.
He sounded older than he had that morning.
“What happened then?”
“She begged.”
I said nothing.
“She apologized.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
“She says she wants to.”
“No.”
“I told her you probably wouldn’t talk tonight.”
“I mean no. I am not ready.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He surprised me.
“Because an apology is not a summons, Grandma.”
I almost smiled.
“Good.”
He had learned something quickly.
“What now?”
“I’m staying with Dad and Mom.”
“Good.”
“I’m calling the landlord Monday.”
“Good.”
“And I’m meeting a lawyer about the note.”
“Also good.”
“Grandma?”
“Yes?”
“She said something else.”
My chest tightened.
“What?”
“Denise didn’t start looking at your money because of the wedding.”
I sat very still.
“When?”
“Two years ago.”
“Why?”
“Lauren said Denise believed you were going to help me buy a house after we married.”
“I never promised that.”
“I know.”
“Did you tell Lauren I would?”
“No.”
“Then why would Denise believe it?”
“She apparently heard it from someone in our family.”
My mind ran through names.
Daniel?
Impossible.
Rachel?
No.
Cousins?
Maybe.
Then Ethan said:
“Lauren gave me the name.”
I waited.
“It wasn’t Dad.”
“Who?”
“Uncle Mark.”
My brother-in-law.
Robert’s younger brother.
The man who had helped settle parts of Robert’s estate.
The man who knew approximately what I owned.
And the man who, six months after Robert died, had asked whether I intended to “keep all that money tied up” or start distributing it while I was alive.
I had forgotten the conversation.
Until now.
“Why would Mark tell Denise anything?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Lauren?”
“She said Denise and Mark have been talking for years.”
My stomach turned.
“About what?”
“She wouldn’t say.”
Then a knock sounded through Ethan’s phone.
He stopped speaking.
“What is it?”
“Someone’s at the apartment.”
“Who?”
“I don’t know.”
Another knock.
Harder.
Lauren’s voice in the background:
“Don’t open it.”
Ethan lowered the phone.
“Why?”
I heard her answer.
Because the apartment was quiet.
And because fear made people speak clearly.
“My mother has a key.”
A metallic click followed.
The door opened from the outside.
Then a man’s voice said:
“Ethan, we need to talk.”
May you like
I knew that voice.
Mark.
