The hope vanished.
“The buyer has agreed to retain the operating workforce under the current proposal,” I said.
Richard stared.
“You spoke to them.”
“I asked Malcolm to confirm employment terms.”
“You planned for us to sell.”
“I planned for every likely outcome.”
He looked at me for a long time.
Then he stood.
“You really are Charles Whitmore’s daughter.”
“No.”
I thought of my mother’s trust.
Her handwriting inside the study books.
Her quiet ability to understand everyone in a room before they understood her.
“I’m Margaret Whitmore’s daughter.”
Richard gave one exhausted laugh.
“God help Preston.”
I did not answer.
At three that afternoon, Brielle called me.
I nearly declined.
Then curiosity won.
“Hello?”
For several seconds, all I heard was breathing.
Then a woman’s voice.
“Eleanor?”
“Yes.”
“This is Brielle.”
“I know.”
She seemed thrown by my calmness.
“I think we should talk.”
“About what?”
“Preston.”
Of course.
I leaned back in my chair.
“What about him?”
“He’s really upset.”
I looked at the city below.
“Then perhaps you should comfort him.”
Silence.
“That’s not necessary.”
“I thought comforting each other was the foundation of your relationship.”
Her voice sharpened.
“You don’t know anything about our relationship.”
“I know he left our wedding night to be with you.”
“He told you I was having a panic attack.”
“Were you?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
The pause told me more than the answer.
I closed my eyes.
I did not need another investigation.
I did not need proof.
Whether the panic attack had been real, exaggerated, or convenient no longer mattered.
Preston had made his choice.
“I never wanted to hurt you,” Brielle said.
I almost admired the sentence.
“Then why did you sleep with my husband?”
Another silence.
“You don’t understand.”
“Then explain.”
“We’ve known each other since college.”
“I know.”
“We were together before you.”
“I know.”
“He was going through a difficult period when he met you.”
“I know.”
She became irritated.
“Would you stop saying that?”
“Stop saying what?”
