Chapter 4 - The Mother-in-Law's Tears
Evelyn Morgan looked like an umbrella that had been left out in a gale. Her gray hair, usually set in immaculate weekly rollers from her salon in Worthington, was plastered to her forehead in damp, stringy curls. Her quilted coat was buttoned crookedly, and she stood on the welcome mat clutching a damp plastic shopping bag as if it were a life preserver.
I opened the door four inches, keeping the heavy brass security chain engaged.
"Evelyn," I said. My voice wasn't angry, but it had no warmth left in it. "It's past seven. Sophie is going down for the night."
"Rachel," she gasped, her voice cracking against the sound of the rain gurgling through the downspouts. "Please. Just let me come into the vestibule. I drove across town in the sleet. My wipers broke on Route 315."
I looked down at Sophie, who was nuzzling into my neck, looking for comfort. I looked at Clare, who stood three feet behind me in the hallway, watching with a sharp, assessing gaze. Clare gave a microscopic nod.
I unhooked the chain and swung the door open. "Five minutes, Evelyn. And leave the wet boots on the tray."
Evelyn stepped inside, her breath coming in shallow, ragged puffs. She kicked off her boots with trembling heels and stood on the hardwood in her stockinged feet, looking around the foyer as if she had never seen it before. Her eyes landed on Thomas Vance sitting at the dining room table surrounded by stacks of financial records, and she swallowed hard.
"He’s at my house, Rachel," Evelyn whispered, pulling off her wet gloves. "Daniel. He arrived at four o'clock. He’s... he’s completely hysterical. He’s locked himself in his old high school bedroom. He won't eat. He won't speak to his father."
"Then you should call a doctor, Evelyn," I said, leaning against the archway. "Because his medical care is no longer my responsibility."
"You don't understand what’s happening!" she cried, stepping toward me with her hands outstretched, before catching herself when Clare stepped forward. "The bank called him. Some woman named Blake filed a formal fraud dispute with Premier Lending. They’re freezing his personal checking accounts. They’re talking about an indictment, Rachel! An indictment! He’s thirty-nine years old! If he gets a criminal record, he’ll lose his broker's license! He’ll lose his job at Continental!"
"He should have considered his broker's license before he forged my signature on a half-million-dollar mortgage, Evelyn," I replied, every word deliberate and cold.
"He made a mistake!" she wept, pulling a damp handkerchief from her pocket. "Men make mistakes when they're confused! He felt pushed out! You were so focused on the baby, on the doctors, on your health—"
"Stop right there," I said.
The temperature in the hallway dropped ten degrees.
"Do not stand in my home and tell me that my husband stole my identity because I was on bed rest trying to keep his child alive," I said, my voice dropping into a register so dark that Evelyn shrank back against the coat rack. "Do not dare suggest that my daughter’s survival was an inconvenience that drove him into the arms of a loan officer."
"I... I didn't mean it like that," Evelyn stammered, shrinking into her quilted coat. "I just mean... you two have eleven years together. Eleven years! You built this life! You have a beautiful daughter! Can't you just withdraw the complaint? Can't your lawyer call the magistrate and say it was a misunderstanding between spouses? We will pay the legal fees! Arthur and I will take out a home equity loan on our house in Worthington! We'll give you the thirty-eight thousand to pay that Blake woman back!"
Clare Donnelly let out a dry, incredulous sound from the archway.
"Mrs. Morgan," Clare said, stepping into the light. "I suggest you consult your own attorney before you offer to encumber your personal assets to settle a felony wire fraud investigation. Because what your son did is not a civil dispute between spouses. It is a crime against a federally insured financial institution. The magistrate has already referred the file. Rachel couldn't stop this prosecution if she wanted to."
Evelyn stared at Clare, then back at me. Her mouth worked soundlessly, like a fish pulled onto a wooden dock.
"You knew, didn't you, Evelyn?" I asked quietly.
She froze. "What?"
"In November," I said, remembering the phone call while I was folding Sophie’s tiny yellow onesies. "You called me and asked if Daniel and I were looking at condos in Grandview. You told me he had taken you to see the penthouse."
Evelyn looked down at her stockinged feet. The shame on her face was so vivid it was almost grotesque.
"You knew about Madison," I whispered. "You knew he had another woman while I was thirty weeks pregnant, carrying your only grandchild. You walked through that penthouse with him. You looked at the granite countertops and the master bedroom while your granddaughter was kicking inside my ribs. And you didn't say a single word to me."
"He told me you agreed!" she sobbed, burying her face in her handkerchief. "He swore to God you two had an arrangement! He said you were going to move back to Cleveland with your sister after the baby was born! What was I supposed to do? He’s my son!"
"You were supposed to be a decent human being, Evelyn," I told her, opening the front door back into the dark, freezing rain. "Get out of my house."
"Rachel, please—"
"Get out," I repeated, my voice as hard as concrete. "And tell Daniel that if he ever sends his mother to fight his legal battles again, I will have the sheriff serve the divorce papers at his parents' front door at noon on Sunday."
Evelyn looked at me for three seconds, realized there was no mercy left to squeeze from the stone, and shoved her feet into her wet boots. She pulled her hood over her wet hair, stepped out into the dark, and hurried down the brick walk toward her sedan without looking back.
I closed the door, threw the deadbolt, and fastened the brass chain.
I looked down at Sophie. She had finally fallen asleep, her tiny face relaxed, her eyelashes resting against her round cheeks.
"Clare," I said, turning back toward the kitchen.
May you like
"Yes, Rachel?"
"Call the title company tomorrow morning," I said. "I want that escrow deposit frozen under an emergency restraining order. If Daniel tries to pull a single penny out of that deal to save himself, I want the trap to snap shut on his fingers."
