Chapter 12
I didn’t answer my mother’s threat about Kelsey’s old address. I watched the cameras instead, their lenses catching every breath I took, every flicker of Eleanor’s face.
“If you contact her,” I said, “you’ll answer to me.”
Eleanor’s smile was too small to be real. “You’ve mistaken a warning for a threat.”
“No. I’ve spent six years mistaking threats for concern.”
The silence around us sharpened. A waiter stood frozen beside a tray of untouched champagne, and one of the reporters lifted her microphone a fraction higher.
Grant touched my mother’s elbow. “We should speak privately.”
She pulled away. “There’s nothing left to discuss.”
But when she turned toward the ballroom doors, Grant stayed where he was. His gaze followed her, then slid to the folder in his hand. For the first time all evening, he looked less like a man in control than a man trying to decide which fire to run from.
My phone vibrated.
Genevieve’s name appeared on the screen. I stepped into the hallway to answer.
“Kelsey and the boys are coming to my guest cottage,” she said. “She got a call from Grant’s assistant. The assistant admitted she sent the photograph and the warning because Grant told her to.”
My hand tightened around the phone. “Is Kelsey safe?”
“She’s with the boys. They’re on their way now. She asked if you could bring their bags from the motel.”
“Of course.”
A beat of quiet. “Ethan, the assistant says she’ll confirm it again if asked. But Kelsey doesn’t want to be near the estate.”
“She shouldn’t have to be.”
I ended the call and started for the side exit. Behind me, the ballroom’s noise swelled as Eleanor resumed speaking, her voice warm and bright enough to make strangers believe nothing had happened.
Near the service corridor, I heard Grant’s low voice.
“You destroy the originals tonight, or I tell them who ordered the work.”
I stopped.
Eleanor answered, just as quietly. “You said the records were gone.”
“I said I could make them difficult to find. I never said every copy was gone.”
“You’re threatening me?”
“I’m telling you what happens if you leave me holding this alone.”
A door opened. I kept moving before either of them could see me.
At the motel, Kelsey had left the duffels beside the room’s small table. One strap had twisted around a chair leg; the other bag sagged open, a child’s sock peeking from the zipper. I lifted them carefully, as if the years packed inside might spill out.
Genevieve’s cottage stood behind the estate’s old garden wall, far enough from the ballroom that the music came through as a dull, distant pulse. A porch light had been switched on. Through the front window, I saw Kelsey standing between the boys and the door.
She opened it only after I knocked.
“They’re inside,” she said. Her eyes went to the bags. “Thank you.”
“I can leave them here.”
“No. Bring them in.”
The boys were gathered around a low table with juice boxes and a plate of crackers. Cormac looked up first. The other three followed, their attention moving from my face to the duffels.
“Are those ours?” Callan asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I brought them from the motel.”
Connor pushed a cracker around his plate without eating it. “Why are we here?”
Kelsey lowered herself onto the edge of a chair. She looked tired in a way sleep couldn’t fix.
“Because somebody took a picture of you and sent a message telling me to keep you out of this.”
Cillian’s brow furrowed. “Who?”
“The person who sent it works for Grant Mercer,” Kelsey said. “She told me Grant asked her to send it.”
Cormac’s mouth tightened. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know,” Kelsey said. “But it wasn’t because of anything you did.”
The boys exchanged a look. Not a child’s casual glance—a quick, practiced consultation, each waiting to see what the others understood.
“Grandma Eleanor said she didn’t want us around Ethan,” Callan said.
Kelsey’s face went still.
I set the bags down by the wall. The thump seemed too loud in the cottage.
“Did she say that?” Kelsey asked.
“Not to us,” Cormac said. “We heard her at the motel.”
The cottage smelled of lemon cleaner and the woodsmoke from a fireplace that hadn’t quite caught. Kelsey pressed her palms against her knees, grounding herself before she answered.
“She told me, years ago, that Ethan didn’t want you. I believed her because I had a letter that said the same thing.”
Cillian looked at me. “Did you?”
There was no careful adult phrasing that could make the truth painless. I crouched, keeping enough distance that none of them had to move away.
“No,” I said. “I never wrote that letter. I didn’t know you existed. But the letter was a lie, and none of you caused it.”
“Would you have come?” Cormac asked.
“If I’d known about you, I would have come. I can’t change that I didn’t know. I can tell you the truth now—and keep telling it, even when it’s hard.”
His eyes stayed on mine, searching for a promise that wouldn’t cost him anything to believe.
“You don’t have to trust me tonight,” I said. “You don’t have to say anything you don’t mean. I just needed you to know you were never unwanted by me.”
Kelsey looked down. For a moment, I thought she might turn away. Instead, she let out a breath that trembled at the end.
Cormac moved first. He didn’t come closer, but he stopped watching the door.
I nodded toward the duffels. “Would you like help unpacking, or should I leave them there?”
“Ask them,” Kelsey said.
So I did.
The boys considered this with grave attention. Connor handed me a small box of colored pencils. Cillian pulled a worn stuffed dog from the open bag and kept hold of one floppy ear.
“You can put those on the table,” Cormac said.
I did. No reaching for the bag, no deciding where things belonged. One item at a time, with their permission.
A folded drawing slid from a side pocket. Four stick-figure boys stood beneath a blue scribble of sky. Beside them was a taller figure, its face unfinished.
“Who’s that?” I asked.
“Me,” Cormac said. Then he took the paper back and tucked it beneath the pencils.
Kelsey watched me give it back without asking more. Her expression didn’t soften exactly. It changed—one guarded thing making room for another.
My phone vibrated again.
Genevieve.
I stepped onto the porch before answering. The garden air was cool, damp with the smell of grass, while behind me the boys began arguing quietly about where the stuffed dog should sit.
“Grant just came back into the ballroom,” Genevieve said. “He has the original instruction and the ledger with him.”
My grip tightened on the phone.
May you like
“Is Eleanor there?”
“Yes. And Ethan—he’s carrying them straight to the people she thought would never see them.”
