“Bennett.”
Mother’s warning voice.
I looked at her.
“You knew too?”
“Not at first.”
“How long?”
Her pause was brief.
“Seven months.”
Seven months.
Clara had been working in the mansion for a little over eight.
I stared at my mother.
“So almost the entire time.”
“Yes.”
“And you both decided I didn’t need to know.”
“That isn’t what happened.”
“It appears remarkably similar.”
Mother leaned back in her wheelchair.
The movement cost her more strength than she wanted me to see.
Clara noticed immediately.
She reached for the glass of water on the side table.
Mother took it.
That small, practiced exchange made my anger worse.
They had a language together.
A routine.
A relationship.
All of it had developed while I was arranging specialists and signing invoices.
“Why did you come here?” I asked Clara.
She looked at the glass in Mother’s hands.
Then at me.
