“I’m not afraid of them.”
“This isn’t about fear.”
“Then what?”
“Forty million dollars makes people unpredictable.”
The following Sunday, my mother invited me to dinner.
Not apologized.
Invited.
Her text read:
Family dinner.
6 p.m.
We should clear the air.
Clear the air.
As though the problem were atmospheric.
I accepted.
But I did not go alone.
I brought nothing visible.
Nathaniel waited in his car two streets away.
Ingrid had connected me with a forensic attorney who advised me to record the conversation because Massachusetts law allowed recording with consent only in many contexts, so instead we arranged something simpler.
I told my parents by text:
For everyone’s protection, I’d like us to record the conversation so nothing is misunderstood later.
Mom responded:
Fine.
This is ridiculous.
Perfect.
When I arrived, Marisa was already there.
