PART 3
The drive back to my father’s house took twenty-three minutes.
I remember because I counted every one of them.
Not consciously at first.
I counted red lights.
Turns.
Bridges.
The seconds between Evelyn’s questions.
Anything to keep myself from looking again at the photograph of Vanessa’s phone that I had taken before we left the café.
Now that Claire is safe, tell her to look inside Arthur’s blue ledger.
My mother had been dead for twelve years.
Yet someone had written those words yesterday and signed her name.
Elizabeth Vance.
Beside me, Evelyn closed the folder containing the documents Vanessa had given us.
“You don’t have to confront your father tonight.”
“I’m not confronting him.”
“What are you doing?”
I watched downtown Dallas slide past the window.
“I’m asking him a question.”
Evelyn gave me a sideways look.
“Those can be more dangerous.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Barely.
She had offered to come inside with me.
I had said no.
This was between Dad and me.
For now.
The strangest thing was that I wasn’t afraid my father had done something terrible.
I was afraid he had kept something from me.
And after eight years of discovering how many truths could be hidden inside a marriage, I didn’t know how much more secrecy I could bear from someone I loved.
When we reached the house, Evelyn touched my arm before I opened the car door.
“Claire.”
I looked back.
“Whatever you learn tonight, don’t decide what it means until you know what it means.”
“That sounds annoyingly reasonable.”
“It’s one of my worst qualities.”
I managed a real smile.
Then I went inside.
Dad was in the kitchen.
Not the study.
Not the library.
The kitchen.
Arthur Vance, who could negotiate a forty-million-dollar agreement without changing expression, was standing at the counter wearing an apron and attempting to make soup.
I stopped in the doorway.
He glanced up.
“You’re early.”
“What are you doing?”
“Cooking.”
“That’s not cooking.”
He looked down at the cutting board.
“What would you call it?”
“An investigation into vegetables.”
He held up a carrot.
“I know what this is.”
“Congratulations.”
“Your mother taught me.”
That erased my smile.
Dad noticed.
The carrot slowly lowered.
“What happened?”
I put my handbag on the counter.
“I met Vanessa.”
His expression hardened.
“Why?”
“Because she asked.”
“And you thought that was wise?”
“Evelyn was there.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“It was my decision.”
Dad went quiet.
Then he nodded.
“Yes.
It was.”
That mattered.
Even now.
I pulled out my phone.
“I need to show you something.”
He removed the apron.
“What?”
“An email.”
I opened the photograph and placed the phone on the counter.
Dad read it.
At first, nothing changed.
Then he reached for the counter as though he needed to steady himself.
I had never seen my father do that.
Not at my mother’s funeral.
Not when his company nearly failed during the recession.
Not even when he saw me two nights ago with blood on my lip.
“Dad?”
He picked up the phone.
His eyes moved across the words again.
“Where did you get this?”
“Vanessa.”
“Who sent it?”
“That’s what I’m asking you.”
His eyes stopped on the signature.
Elizabeth Vance.
He looked suddenly older.
“Dad.”
“Claire…”
“Do you have a blue ledger?”
His face answered before his mouth did.
I stepped backward.
“You do.”
He looked toward the hallway.
May you like
“Not here.”
“What does that mean?”
