“We knew that.”
“No. I mean really in trouble.”
She was quiet.
“Do you want to help him?”
“Yes.”
“So do I.”
“But not by pretending this didn’t happen.”
“No.”
“And not by giving them the house.”
“No.”
Patricia reached across the table and took my hand.
“We need the truth first.”
Three days later, the truth took an unexpected turn.
Martin asked Patricia and me to come to his office.
Lydia Mercer would be there.
She was smaller than I remembered, in her late fifties, with short gray hair and a nervous habit of twisting a silver ring on her right hand.
She stood when we entered.
“Mr. Humbert.”
“Lydia.”
“I’m sorry we’re meeting like this.”
“So am I.”
Patricia sat beside me.
Martin closed the conference-room door.
Lydia had brought a folder.
“I went through old files,” she said. “Personal copies. Things I kept because I was worried about how the firm handled my resignation.”
