His accusation.
His ultimatum.
He had withdrawn the $10,500 himself, hidden the cash, then used its “disappearance” as the reason to assault my mother and force us out.
I stood so quickly the chair scraped backward.
Claire rose.
“Hannah.”
“He hit her for something he did.”
“I know.”
“He hit an old woman whose husband just died so he could steal our money.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.”
My voice cracked for the first time.
“You don’t know because I brought him into her life.”
Claire’s eyes filled.
“He sat beside my father while Dad was dying. My father trusted him.”
“Hannah.”
“My father loved him.”
Then I started crying.
Not graceful tears.
Not quiet tears.
I folded in half beside a fake ficus tree in a hotel lobby and sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.
Mom found me twenty minutes later.
She must have woken and realized I was gone.
She came downstairs wearing the hotel robe over her nightgown.
Her bruised cheek had turned purple.
She looked at Claire.
“What happened?”
I couldn’t speak.
Claire told her.
Mom listened without moving.
When Claire finished, Mom sat beside me.
I expected anger.
Instead she stroked my hair.
“Your father never trusted Brandon.”
I froze.
“What?”
She sighed.
“He tried.”
I lifted my head.
“What does that mean?”
Mom stared toward the dark windows.
