For the first time that day, she looked less like someone attacking me and more like someone waking inside a nightmare.
“Did you know?” I asked.
She shook her head frantically.
“Not all of it.”
“How much?”
“I knew Mom had accounts. I thought they were family accounts. She said your name was on them because you handled the business stuff.”
“Did you try to transfer the twenty-seven thousand?”
Her silence answered.
My chest ached.
“So yes.”
“I thought you’d agreed!”
“You walked into my hospital room demanding my card.”
“Because she said you’d changed your mind!”
“Then you attacked me.”
Brielle covered her face.
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know.”
The police officer read Diane her rights.
I watched my mother—the woman who packed my lunches, braided my hair, yelled at me about grades, and sat in the front row at my wedding—put her hands behind her back.
I thought it should feel satisfying.
It didn’t.
It felt like becoming an orphan at thirty-two.
Again.
As the officer escorted her toward the door, Diane turned.
“Natalie.”
I couldn’t answer.
“I did love you.”
My throat tightened.
“You don’t get to use that word right now.”
Her face collapsed.
Then she was gone.
Brielle stayed.
Because I asked security not to arrest her.
Not yet.
Grant stared at me.
“Are you sure?”
“No.”
It was the most honest answer I had.
Brielle slowly stood.
Her makeup had run down her face.
She looked at Clara.
Not with jealousy anymore.
With shame.
“I’m sorry.”
I said nothing.
She nodded.
“I know that doesn’t fix anything.”
“No.”
“I really thought—”
“Don’t.”
She stopped.
“For once in your life, don’t explain why you did something. Just live with the fact that you did it.”
She cried harder.
But nodded.
Then she left.
Thomas remained.
For several minutes, neither of us knew what to say.
Finally, he reached into his wallet and removed a faded photograph.
A young woman stood beside a man near a lake.
She was laughing.
Dark hair.
My eyes.
Thomas handed it to me.
