Chapter 8 - Under the Sweaters|

Before Evelyn could answer my question, my cell phone rang again.

This time, I picked it up.

"Hello, Ryan."

"Where the hell are you?" he demanded, his voice sharp with anxiety.

"Having lunch."

"With my mother?"

"Yes."

"What exactly did she do at the bank, Claire?"

"If you want to know, Ryan, ask her yourself."

"I am asking you!"

"And I am telling you to have a conversation with your mother."

A thick, angry silence stretched over the connection.

"Did she alter her will?" he blurted out.

My breath hitched. Evelyn closed her eyes tightly across the table.

"Why on earth would you ask something like that?" I countered.

"Because she's been acting bizarre lately!"

"No, Ryan. You are the one acting bizarre."

"Claire, get home right now."

The tone of his voice chilled me. It wasn't an invitation. It wasn't a request to talk.

It was a command.

"I'll be home when I'm finished," I said flatly and hung up the phone.

Evelyn looked down at her untouched soup.

"He knows much more than he's admitting to you."

"How could he know?"

"He found a legal document from my estate attorney."

"Found it where?"

"In my private desk drawer."

My jaw dropped.

"He was snooping through your private desk?"

"He claimed he was searching for the user manual for my digital thermostat," she said with a quiet sigh.

"That is unacceptable!"

"I asked him politely to respect my privacy."

"And what was his response?"

"He told me I was becoming paranoid in my old age."

I sat frozen in my seat. This was no longer just about a lazy son refusing to drive his aging mother to the bank.

Ryan was actively monitoring her. Tracking her paper trail. Waiting for her to pass away.

That evening, after returning home, I snuck into our master bedroom closet. I hid the small brass key deep inside a vintage jewelry box, buried under a thick stack of winter sweaters.

I felt sick to my stomach for hiding it.

When I walked downstairs, Ryan was standing at the kitchen island, frying chicken cutlets.

"How was lunch?" he asked casually, without looking up.

"Fine."

"What did Mom want?"

"She wanted tomato soup."

He turned around, holding a pair of tongs.

"Don't do that, Claire."

"Do what?"

"Make sarcastic jokes."

"I'm not joking. She ate soup."

He set the tongs down with a heavy metallic clack.

"Did she hand you any paperwork?"

I looked him dead in the eye.

"Why do you keep asking me that?"

His jaw clenched.

"Because she's getting older and confused!"

"That's not an answer, Ryan."

"She makes impulsive financial choices!"

"Like what?"

"Claire, you simply don't understand how my family works!"

I nearly let out a manic laugh.

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For eighteen years, I had wrapped every holiday gift, scheduled every family dinner, taken care of his mother, tracked his nieces' birthdays, and defended his honor every time his family felt neglected.

And now, suddenly, I didn't understand his family.