Chapter 6 - MIRIAM SHAW CHOSE A SIDE
We spent six hours tracing documents.
Miriam had kept copies in three separate locations because my mother had insisted.
One file showed payments from a Vandermark subsidiary to a consulting company owned by a man I knew well.
Roman D’Angelo.
My consigliere.
My father’s oldest surviving lieutenant.
The man who had stood beside me at Ewan’s funeral.
Roman had advised me for twelve years.
I wanted to believe the company name was coincidence.
Miriam did not.
“Don’t confront him yet.”
“I don’t need instructions.”
“Yes, you do.”
I looked at her.
She did not flinch.
“Your family has spent generations solving uncertainty with force.”
She tapped the papers.
“This problem requires proof.”
I hated that she was right.
That afternoon, Delia was strong enough to speak longer.
Miriam joined us.
The two women recognized one another immediately.
Delia looked relieved.
Miriam looked guilty.
“Where is the original marriage certificate?” I asked.
Delia’s face changed.
“Not with me.”
“Where?”
“With someone Celeste can’t reach.”
“Who?”
Delia looked at Miriam.
Miriam nodded.
Delia answered.
“My sister.”
“Where is she?”
“Wisconsin.”
“And Ewan’s other documents?”
“Some were destroyed.”
“Some?”
“He mailed one package before the fire.”
“To whom?”
“Your mother.”
That explained the cellar.
My mother had hidden the package.
Celeste had discovered something existed.
But not where.
Delia had found the hidden compartment weeks earlier.
It was already empty.
“Why were you in the conservatory last night?”
“Your mother signaled me.”
I frowned.
“Signaled?”
Delia described a system.
One blink for yes.
Two for no.
Long blink to indicate letters on a chart.
It took forever.
But my mother could communicate.
Not quickly.
Not easily.
Yet she could.
For four years, I had accepted doctors telling me her speech was gone.
I had never asked whether that meant her voice was gone too.
Delia looked ashamed for me.
“She kept trying to tell you.”
My stomach twisted.
“What did she say?”
“Usually one word.”
“What word?”
Delia whispered:
“Ewan.”
That evening, I sat beside my mother.
Her eyes followed me.
I placed an alphabet board on the bed.
“Mother.”
Her eyes filled immediately.
“I’m going to ask questions.”
One blink.
Yes.
“Did Celeste know Ewan?”
One blink.
“Did Roman know?”
One blink.
My chest tightened.
Then I asked the question I had been afraid to ask.
“Did Father know Ewan was married?”
One blink.
May you like
I closed my eyes.
When I opened them again, my mother was crying.
