No suitcase.
No panic.
A bottle of wine stood unopened on the table between us.
She looked tired.
Older.
For the first time in my life, small.
“You came.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“No.”
“Why am I alive?”
She smiled sadly.
“I wondered which question you would ask first.”
“Answer it.”
Deborah looked toward the lake.
“When Julian said you blinked, Preston panicked.”
“I know.”
“He wanted to close the coffin permanently.”
I felt sick.
“He would have suffocated you before anyone reached the cemetery.”
“And you stopped him.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
My mother looked at me.
“Because I am capable of terrible things, Renee.”
Her voice cracked.
“But apparently there was still one thing I could not do.”
“Let me die?”
“Watch you die.”
I laughed bitterly.
“You drugged me.”
“Yes.”
“You arranged the doctor.”
“Yes.”
“You planned my legal death.”
“Yes.”
“You made a deal with my husband.”
“Yes.”
Each answer was calm.
Unprotected.
“Then don’t tell me you loved me.”
“I did love you.”
“No.”
“I did.”
“Love does not put its child inside a coffin.”
Her face twisted.
“You think people who love never become monstrous?”
I stared.
She continued.
“I spent thirty-seven years telling myself everything I did was for the family.”
“What does that even mean?”
“It means I married a man I did not love because Evelyn threatened to cut me off.
It means when I became pregnant with another man’s child, I stayed.
It means I watched my husband raise you while knowing you came from someone else.”
“You could have told me.”
“I was ashamed.”
“That was your shame.”
“I know.”
The words were barely audible.
“Thomas came back last year.
He was dying.
He wanted you.”
“Then why didn’t you let him meet me?”
“Because he told me what he was leaving you.”
I stared.
There it was.
No excuse.
Money.
She laughed once.
Ugly.
“I wish I could tell you I hesitated.”
My eyes burned.
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
“So you found Preston.”
“He found me.”
That surprised me.
“He discovered Thomas first.
He hired someone because he thought you were hiding money.”
Of course.
Even his discovery of my father had begun with suspicion.
“Preston approached me,” she continued.
“He wanted help navigating the trust.
He was desperate.
I knew desperate men are useful.”
“And Sabine?”
“Jealous women are useful too.”
My stomach turned.
“You used your own daughter.”
“I used everyone.”
“Why the smaller insurance policy?”
“Because murder needs a motive people can understand.”
She looked at me.
“Five hundred thousand dollars is believable.
Twenty-five million creates too many questions.”
Cold admiration mixed with horror.
It had been elegant.
Preston and Sabine would appear greedy and obvious.
Dr.
Crane would be the corrupt doctor they paid.
The recording would prove conspiracy.
My mother would lead investigators directly toward them if anything went wrong.
“And the forty-two thousand dollars?”
“Preston paid it.
I arranged where it went.”
