Chapter 17 - Lorraine’s Version of the Truth
Lorraine woke up at a hospital in Mesa.
She had sedatives in her system.
No life-threatening injuries.
No memory, she claimed, of how she reached the desert.
Her attorney told police she had been kidnapped.
Her note blamed Peter.
Peter was arrested before sunrise.
He did not resist.
As officers led him out of Marcus’s house, he looked at me.
“Do not believe the note.”
“I don’t believe anyone anymore.”
He nodded.
“That’s probably smart.”
Brooke watched from the doorway.
When the cruiser disappeared, she folded into my arms like she had when we were children.
For years, I had thought of Brooke as shallow.
Spoiled.
Selfish.
Some of that was true.
But underneath it was a frightened girl who had grown up learning that affection came with terms and that the safest place in the family was near Lorraine.
“I don’t know who we are,” she whispered.
“We get to decide.”
She pulled back.
“Do we?”
“Yes.”
“What if we’re like her?”
I looked at Natalie.
She stood beside the stairs, exhausted but listening.
“We tell each other the truth when it is ugly.”
Brooke nodded.
“Okay.”
By noon, Lorraine requested to see me.
Alone.
Marcus advised against it.
The detective encouraged it, provided the meeting occurred at the hospital with officers nearby.
Natalie said nothing.
That mattered most.
“What do you think?” I asked her.
She sat on the edge of the guest bed, rubbing lotion into her dry hands.
“I think you want to go.”
“I do.”
“So go.”
“Are you okay with that?”
She looked up.
“Do not ask me for permission so you can blame me later.”
The precision of it hurt.
“I won’t.”
“Then go because you choose to go.”
I nodded.
“I choose to go.”
“Good.”
I leaned down and kissed her forehead.
She caught my sleeve.
“Ethan.”
“Yes?”
“Do not go there looking for a mother.”
I stared at her.
“Go looking for information.”
Lorraine’s hospital room had two police officers outside.
Inside, she looked fragile.
An IV line ran into her arm.
Her makeup was gone.
Her hair was flattened against one side of her head.
For a second, memory betrayed me.
I saw the mother who bandaged my knees.
The mother who slept in a chair beside me when I had pneumonia at ten.
The mother who packed my lunch every day in high school.
People are rarely one thing.
That was the hardest lesson.
“You came,” she said.
“Yes.”
“Where’s Brooke?”
“Not here.”
“Is she safe?”
I almost laughed.
“She’s safe from you.”
Pain crossed Lorraine’s face.
“Ethan.”
“What happened in the desert?”
“Peter.”
“He was with us last night.”
“That proves nothing.”
“He confessed to sabotaging Dad’s brakes.”
Lorraine closed her eyes.
“Then finally.”
“Finally what?”
“Finally he admitted it.”
“You knew.”
“Yes.”
“Before Dad died?”
“No.”
I stared.
“Peter says you told him to make sure Dad never reached court.”
“He is twisting words.”
“The tape has you saying almost the same thing.”
Her eyes opened.
“What tape?”
I smiled.
She knew.
Her face changed.
“Celia.”
“Yes.”
Lorraine laughed weakly.
“Of course.”
“Did you order Peter to sabotage the brakes?”
“No.”
“Did you know he might?”
“No.”
“Did you want Dad stopped from filing for divorce?”
“Yes.”
“Did you threaten him?”
“Yes.”
The admissions came so calmly I almost missed how enormous they were.
“Why admit that now?”
“Because threatening your husband during a terrible marriage is not murder.”
“Stealing six hundred thousand?”
“Samuel’s idea.”
“He admitted that.”
For the first time, she looked surprised.
“Samuel admitted it?”
“Yes.”
“Then he is more frightened than I thought.”
“Of what?”
She looked toward the door.
“Close it.”
“No.”
“Ethan.”
“No.”
She studied me.
Then smiled faintly.
“Natalie taught you boundaries.”
The sound of my wife’s name in her mouth made my skin crawl.
“Do not talk about her.”
“I did not cause her cancer.”
“You delayed treatment.”
“I made mistakes.”
“No.”
I stepped closer.
“You changed her medical phone number.”
Silence.
“You canceled oncology.”
“She was going to expose me.”
There it was.
Clear.
Simple.
“You knew she had cancer.”
“I knew the biopsy was serious.”
“And you still stopped treatment.”
“I thought she had more time.”
My vision narrowed.
“You thought.”
“She had found records. She was threatening the family’s entire financial structure.”
“She asked about a transfer.”
“She was digging.”
“So you punished her.”
“I contained a risk.”
The language was monstrous because it was so professional.
A risk.
My wife had been a risk.
“Did you take her phone?”
“Yes.”
“Did you make her sleep in the storage room?”
“She chose to.”
“She says you forced her.”
“She could have left.”
“You told her I would abandon her.”
Lorraine looked away.
I felt something inside me finally detach.
Not anger.
Hope.
The childish hope that somewhere beneath all the lies, my mother would say one sentence that made it understandable.
There was no sentence.
“Why the note blaming Peter?” I asked.
Her head snapped toward me.
“I did not write it.”
“Handwriting?”
“Not mine.”
“They’ll test it.”
“Good.”
“Who drugged you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where were you before?”
She hesitated.
“Aaron Vale’s house.”
I stared.
“Why?”
“He called me.”
“What did he want?”
“The trust documents.”
“Did you give them to him?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because he lied to me.”
I laughed.
“You have standards?”
Her eyes sharpened.
“He promised me fifteen percent of the development profits. Then I discovered Saguaro planned to cut Red Mesa out once the option was enforced.”
“So this entire thing is money.”
“No.”
“What else?”
She looked at me.
“Your father’s land was the only thing he loved more than his children.”
“That sounds like jealousy.”
“It was security.”
“For who?”
“For me.”
There it was again.
Control translated into security.
“Who planted the recorder under your desk?”
Lorraine’s expression changed.
“Aaron.”
“Why?”
“I think so.”
“Why record you?”
“Insurance.”
“Against what?”
“Me.”
I almost smiled.
Smart man.
“Was the male voice on it Aaron?”
“Yes.”
“The one asking whether Natalie was still a problem?”
Lorraine looked away.
“Yes.”
“Did he suggest harming her?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“You said treatment could keep waiting.”
Her face tightened.
“That is not the same thing.”
“To me it is.”
I turned to leave.
“Ethan.”
I stopped.
“Peter did not drug me.”
I looked back.
“How do you know?”
“Because I saw who did.”
“Who?”
Fear entered her face.
Not performance.
Not calculation.
Fear.
“Aaron?”
She shook her head.
“Samuel?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Lorraine whispered the name.
I thought I had misheard.
“What?”
“Tom Alvarez.”
My supervisor.
The man who had assigned my projects.
The man who claimed not to know about the land.
May you like
Lorraine’s eyes filled.
“Your company did not accidentally hire Daniel Cole’s son.”
