Chapter 11 - A Mother's Collection
Lieutenant Eric Sloan had not disappeared.
He was living under his own name in a small town three counties away.
Helen's investigator located him but did not approach until we understood whether he was a witness, a participant, or simply a man photographed with my mother.
I had learned not to mistake suspicion for proof.
My parents were very good at that mistake when it served them.
Meanwhile, Eleanor asked to meet privately with me.
Helen advised against an unsupervised conversation.
We agreed to a conference in her office with counsel present.
My mother arrived wearing a navy dress and the expression she used before telling me I'd disappointed her.
“Your father has made mistakes,” she began.
I waited.
“Everyone makes mistakes.”
“He submitted a forged document to take my inheritance.”
“He was trying to protect the family.”
“From what?”
She looked at Helen as if a witness offended her.
“From strangers who would take everything.”
“My grandfather left it to me.”
“And who do you think raised your grandfather's son?”
The question made no sense.
But she delivered it as if my existence were an unpaid debt.
I asked why she had visited the hospital and requested information about my ability to sign documents.
She went rigid.
“You were injured, Amelia.”
“Then why didn't you come into my room?”
She opened her mouth.
No answer came.
“Did you know I was alive?”
Her eyes filled with tears.
I almost reached for her.
That reflex frightened me more than anything else.
Even after all these years, some part of me still wanted to comfort the woman who had abandoned me.
“Your father said it would complicate things,” she whispered.
“What things?”
“The trust.”
There it was.
My mother had left my hospital without seeing me because discussing money was more urgent than holding her daughter.
She slid a document across the table.
It offered to restore a portion of the farm to me if I dismissed all claims and agreed not to cooperate with investigators.
Helen immediately rejected the proposal's improper conditions.
My mother looked betrayed.
“I came here to save you.”
“No,” I told her.
“You came to save him.”
For the first time, she did not deny it.
As she left, a small velvet envelope slipped from her handbag.
I picked it up and handed it back.
Before she closed it, I glimpsed a miniature key tagged with two characters.
H-17.
The same designation as the sealed deposit.
My mother noticed my expression.
May you like
And for one unguarded second, she looked more afraid of me than my father ever had.
