“Just remember this is Geoffrey.”
I stopped writing.
“I know.”
“No, I mean really remember.”
I looked at her.
She folded her hands.
“If he did something wrong, then we face it. But don’t decide what he did before you know.”
I wanted to tell her Geoffrey had already decided something.
He had decided that I was less welcome in his home than Allison’s relatives.
He had decided not to tell us about the restaurant.
He had decided—at minimum—to allow questions about our finances that no son should have been asking casually.
But Patricia was right.
There was still a difference between suspicion and truth.
“I won’t.”
That night, neither of us slept much.
At nine the next morning, I was sitting across from Martin Ellis in his office near Camelback Road.
Martin and I had known each other for almost twenty years.
He had handled our wills, a property dispute with a neighbor, and the sale of Patricia’s late mother’s small condo.
