Chapter 8
The first real answer came from an unexpected place.
Maeve found it.
She called me on a Sunday afternoon.
“Are you working?”
“I’m folding hotel sheets.”
“Stop folding hotel sheets.”
“My supervisor might object.”
“Take your break.”
“I had my break.”
“Have another.”
“Maeve.”
“Clara.”
I looked around the laundry room.
My supervisor, Gwen, was at the far end checking inventory.
“What happened?”
“I found a box.”
“That is usually how boxes work.”
“Declan’s humor has infected you. I’m sorry.”
I smiled despite myself.
“What’s in it?”
“Letters.”
My smile faded.
“What kind?”
“Eileen Walsh’s.”
I knew immediately she meant Declan’s mother.
“To Victor Hale?”
“Some. Others to the hospital board.”
My stomach tightened.
“Does Declan know?”
“He’s sitting across from me.”
I pictured him in the mansion kitchen while Maeve stood over a cardboard box, both of them examining papers no one had touched in years.
“Why are you calling me?”
“Because one of the letters mentions the Patient Services Trust.”
My fingers went cold.
“What does it say?”
Maeve hesitated.
“I think you should read it yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because Declan is involved in what it says.”
I didn’t understand.
“How?”
Another voice came onto the line.
Declan.
“Clara.”
“What does the letter say?”
“It says my mother discovered irregular transfers from the trust.”
I leaned against the laundry table.
“When?”
“Eight years ago.”
“And?”
“She believed Victor was moving money between accounts without proper authorization.”
“Did she report him?”
“She intended to.”
“Intended?”
“My mother became ill shortly afterward.”
His voice remained steady.
But I heard the strain beneath it.
“She spent the last year of her life in treatment. The foundation board changed. The trust was closed. The records were archived.”
“And Victor?”
“Disappeared from the foundation’s business.”
I looked at the machines turning behind glass.
Sheets rose and fell in slow circles.
“Why does the letter mention you?”
Declan didn’t answer immediately.
“Because she asked me to review the transactions.”
“And did you?”
Silence.
That was my answer.
My chest tightened.
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I was twenty-seven. My mother was sick. I was taking over businesses I barely understood. I thought the trust was already closed.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“No.”
His voice became quieter.
“The answer is that I told myself I would deal with it later.”
The words struck harder than I expected.
Later.
Ten more minutes.
Tomorrow.
Next week.
After this shift.
After this payment.
After grief became easier.
I knew what later could cost.
“What happened to the files?”
“I gave them to an accountant.”
“And?”
“He reported no active losses because the trust had already stopped operating.”
“But someone kept using the name.”
“Yes.”
“For years.”
“Yes.”
Anger rose slowly.
Not hot.
Not wild.
Heavy.
“You could have stopped this.”
Maeve said my name softly.
Declan didn’t.
He simply said, “Maybe.”
I closed my eyes.
“I have to go.”
“Clara—”
May you like
“I have work.”
I ended the call.
