Chapter 6 - MY MOTHER’S LAST NIGHT
-6
My mother had been dead twelve years.
Breast cancer.
That was the story.
Unlike the other mysteries now surrounding my family, there had never seemed to be anything suspicious about it.
She was diagnosed at forty-nine.
Surgery.
Chemotherapy.
Remission.
Recurrence.
A year of decline.
Then hospice.
I sat beside her bed the night she died.
So did my father.
Raymond arrived the next morning to handle everything.
Nothing about it looked like murder.
Nothing about it even looked secret.
So when my father’s note told me to ask Raymond about that night, I felt anger before fear.
“What did you do?”
Raymond sat across from me inside Rebecca Shaw’s conference room.
His hands trembled.
“Nothing to your mother.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Your mother died from cancer.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Then what happened that night?”
He closed his eyes.
“She told Thomas she knew about Nathan.”
I stopped breathing.
“What?”
“Your mother knew.”
I remembered my mother near the end.
Thin.
Exhausted.
Still somehow capable of terrifying nurses who forgot to warm her tea.
“She knew for years?”
“Not everything.”
“How much?”
“She found letters Elena had sent Thomas.”
“When?”
“About three weeks before she died.”
I sat down.
“She confronted him?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“That the affair was long over. That Nathan wanted nothing from him.”
“Both convenient.”
“Yes.”
“What did my mother want?”
“To meet Nathan.”
My throat tightened.
“Did she?”
Raymond’s silence answered.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Thomas refused.”
“Of course.”
“She asked me to locate Nathan privately.”
I stared at him.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I found him.”
The betrayal was becoming almost exhausting in its repetition.
Everybody found Nathan.
Everybody spoke to Nathan.
Everybody except me.
“What happened?”
“I met him at a coffee shop in Somerville.”
“How old was he?”
“Twenty-four.”
My mother had died twelve years ago.
Nathan would have been twenty-four.
“What did you tell him?”
“That Catherine Whitmore wanted to meet.”
I had not heard my mother’s name spoken in connection with Nathan before.
“And?”
“He refused.”
That surprised me.
“Why?”
“He said he had no interest in helping Thomas manage his guilt.”
“Did you explain she wasn’t Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Then why?”
Raymond looked pained.
“He thought your mother wanted proof of the affair for divorce litigation.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“She did not.”
“Did he ever learn that?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“The night she died.”
My pulse slowed.
“What happened?”
“Your mother asked me to call Nathan.”
“From hospice?”
“Yes.”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they speak?”
Raymond nodded.
“For twenty-three minutes.”
I leaned back.
My mother had spoken with my brother while I sat somewhere in that same house believing she was resting.
“What did they say?”
“I only heard Catherine’s side.”
“What did she tell him?”
“That none of what happened was his fault.”
My eyes burned.
“She apologized for not finding him sooner.”
I looked away.
My mother had spent the last hours of her life apologizing to a son who was not hers for a cruelty she had not committed.
“She asked him to meet me.”
“What?”
“She told Nathan that after she died, he should contact you.”
I stared.
“Did he agree?”
“Not immediately.”
“What did he say?”
Raymond swallowed.
“He asked whether you were like Thomas.”
Again.
That question.
The defining question of Nathan’s relationship with me before we had one.
“What did my mother answer?”
Raymond smiled sadly.
“She said, ‘Sometimes, but he still hates himself afterward.’”
A laugh escaped me before I could stop it.
That sounded exactly like her.
Marissa smiled through tears.
Raymond continued.
“Catherine told him you were stubborn, privileged, arrogant, and better than Thomas believed you were.”
“Generous obituary.”
“She loved you.”
“I know.”
“Nathan agreed to contact you eventually.”
“But he waited eight years.”
“He had reasons.”
“Harbor Point?”
“Partly.”
Raymond pulled a letter from his briefcase.
“I should have given you this twelve years ago.”
My mother’s handwriting.
Adrian.
I could not open it immediately.
“You had this?”
“Yes.”
“For twelve years?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Thomas asked me to destroy it.”
I looked at him.
“And you didn’t.”
“No.”
“But you didn’t give it to me.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Cowardice.”
At least Raymond had stopped inventing elegant language.
I opened the letter.
My mother wrote:
There is something about your father you may one day need to understand. Good people can become loyal to terrible systems one compromise at a time. Your father is not without love. That may be what makes his choices harder to forgive.
My eyes filled.
Then:
You have a brother.
Nathan Keane.
The words blurred.
I knew there was no promise from me that could repair twenty-nine years of silence. But there is still time for you.
There had been.
Twelve years.
There had been twelve years.
I continued.
Do not make him beg to belong. If he wants nothing from Whitmore, respect that. If he wants answers, give them. If he hates us, let him.
At the bottom:
You do not inherit your father’s sins unless you choose to protect them.
I closed my eyes.
That sentence changed something fundamental inside me.
For years I had treated inheritance like property.
Buildings.
Shares.
Reputation.
Now I understood silence could be inherited too.
Raymond said, “Thomas came into the room after she died.”
“What happened?”
“He found me holding the letter.”
“And?”
“He told me giving it to you would destroy your relationship with him.”
“He was probably right.”
“I chose him.”
“You chose your client.”
“No.”
Raymond looked directly at me.
“I chose access. Status. The Whitmore account represented almost forty percent of my firm’s revenue. I told myself I was protecting a grieving son. Really, I was protecting myself.”
Marissa shifted Owen in her arms.
I appreciated Raymond’s honesty more now because it offered no rescue.
“What did Nathan think when I never contacted him?”
“He assumed your mother had changed her mind before dying.”
My chest hurt.
“Did you tell him she hadn’t?”
“Years later.”
“When Harbor Point started?”
“Yes.”
“Is that why he trusted you at all?”
“Barely.”
The door opened.
Rebecca Shaw entered.
“We found Peter Lane.”
My father’s former driver.
“Florida?”
“No.”
She looked at Raymond.
“He never retired to Florida.”
“Where is he?”
“New Hampshire.”
“Why disappear?”
“He says Thomas paid him to.”
Of course.
“Is he talking?”
“Yes.”
Peter Lane had been driving the Whitmore SUV the night Nathan died.
He confirmed my father’s account up to one point.
Thomas found Nathan at a gas station.
They argued.
Nathan drove away.
Thomas ordered Peter to follow.
Cross followed Nathan.
Then a third vehicle appeared.
Not Graham’s.
A Northfield pickup.
“Who drove it?”
Shaw turned a tablet toward us.
“Peter says he recognized the passenger.”
Photograph.
Graham Voss.
My stomach dropped.
So Graham had been there.
“What happened?”
“According to Peter, Cross forced Nathan toward the shoulder. Nathan recovered. Then the Northfield truck moved ahead.”
Marissa’s breathing changed.
“What did it do?”
“Slowed suddenly.”
Nathan had Cross on one side.
Graham ahead.
A coordinated box.
“Then?”
“Nathan swerved.”
“Into the opposite lane?”
“Yes.”
“Was there another vehicle?”
“Truck.”
The collision.
“He didn’t just lose control,” Marissa whispered.
“No.”
“He was trapped.”
“Yes.”
I felt rage become almost cold enough to think clearly.
“What did my father do?”
“Peter says Thomas screamed for him to stop. Peter stopped after the crash.”
“Then Cross turned around.”
“Yes.”
“Why did Thomas leave?”
Peter’s answer was worse than fear.
Because Graham called him.
“What did Graham say?”
Shaw read from the statement.
“If you stay there, the Harbor Point files go to the FBI under your signature.”
I stared.
“Meaning?”
“Graham claimed he had documents making Thomas appear responsible for the material fraud.”
“And Thomas left Nathan to protect himself.”
“Yes.”
Same choice.
Again.
Company.
Reputation.
Himself.
Before his son.
Marissa stood.
“I need air.”
I followed her into the hallway but stopped several feet away.
“Do you want company?”
“No.”
Then:
“Yes.”
I stood beside her.
For a while neither of us spoke.
Finally she said:
“I hated Nathan sometimes.”
I looked at her.
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
She almost smiled.
“He would disappear into files all night. Forget groceries. Forget appointments. Then apologize like being sorry was a scheduling system.”
“Sounds familiar.”
“You?”
“Unfortunately.”
She looked through the conference-room glass at Raymond.
“I thought the worst thing Whitmore did was make him obsessed.”
“Now?”
“I think he was trying to stay alive long enough to finish something.”
Her eyes filled.
“And I was angry he missed prenatal appointments.”
“You were allowed to be.”
“I know.”
She wiped her face.
“I’m learning grief can hold two truths.”
I thought of my father.
Love and cowardice.
My mother.
Illness and defiance.
Nathan.
Stranger and brother.
“Yes.”
Back inside, Shaw had more.
Peter Lane preserved something.
A voice recording.
Thomas and Graham in the SUV after Nathan’s crash.
Peter had activated his phone when he realized what was happening.
Thomas’s voice:
“We have to go back.”
Graham:
“You go back and all of this becomes yours.”
Thomas:
“My son is down there.”
Graham:
“You have one son.”
Silence.
Then Thomas shouted:
“Don’t you ever say that again.”
Graham laughed.
“You proved it tonight.”
The recording ended.
I felt physically ill.
My father had hated the sentence.
Then lived it.
One son.
Me.
The legitimate heir.
The public Whitmore.
The one worth preserving.
Nathan had died in the dark while Thomas drove away.
Rebecca Shaw received another call.
Her expression sharpened.
“They found Graham’s vehicle.”
“Where?”
“Logan Airport parking.”
“Did he fly out?”
“No record.”
“Private?”
“Possibly.”
Then another agent entered.
“We have a bigger problem.”
“What?”
“Whitmore corporate servers are being wiped.”
I stood.
“Remotely?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
“Inside headquarters.”
My blood went cold.
Graham had not fled.
He was destroying evidence.
At my company.
And as CEO, my credentials could access almost everything.
If Graham wanted to erase Harbor Point, he could also make it look as though I had done it.
Then my phone began vibrating.
Board members.
Chief financial officer.
Press office.
My assistant.
Finally a headline appeared.
WHITMORE CEO ADRIAN WHITMORE UNDER INTERNAL REVIEW FOR HARBOR POINT DOCUMENT DELETION.
Marissa stared.
“He’s framing you.”
I looked at the time.
Graham had spent four years ensuring Nathan could never reach me.
May you like
Now that Nathan finally had—
Graham was going to make sure no one believed either of us.
