"And you believed him."
"I wanted to believe him." She stops at the window, staring out at Manhattan like she can escape through the glass. "I wanted the problem to go away. Wanted my life back. Wanted—" She laughs, broken and bitter. "I wanted to stop being afraid all the time. Afraid Richard would find out. Afraid I'd lose everything. Afraid I'd end up alone."
"So you let Matthew murder your husband."
"I didn't let?—"
"You knew what he was planning. You didn't stop it. You didn't warn Dad. You didn't call the police." I grab her arm, forcing her to face me. "You stood on the dock and watched my father sail to his death, and you did nothing."
Her face crumbles completely. Not the elegant grief of a socialite, but raw, ugly devastation.
"I loved him," she chokes out. "Matthew. I still love him. Even knowing what he did. Even knowing what that makes me. I can't—" She pulls free, wrapping her arms around herself. "I can't stop loving him, Isabelle. And I hate myself for it."
I should feel satisfaction. Should feel vindicated that she's finally telling the truth, finally showing the rot underneath all that polish.
I don't.
I just feel tired. Tired of her. Tired of Matthew. Tired of the endless web of lies and violence and betrayal that's become my inheritance.
"Here's what's going to happen." My voice comes out flat. Empty. "You're going to leave my home. You're going to stay away from me, from Sergei, from Mila. You're not going to contact your lawyers about contesting anything. You're going to sit quietly and wait for Detective Fraser to come knocking."
"And the recording? The evidence?"
"Stays exactly where it is. Insurance." I move to the door, opening it wide. "You had your chance to do the right thing. Fifteen years of chances. You chose Matthew every single time. So now you get to live with those choices."
"Isabelle, please." She stumbles toward me, all the elegance stripped away. "I'm your mother. Whatever I've done—whatever mistakes I've made—you're still my daughter. Doesn't that count for something?"
"It counted for something when I was six and wanted you to love me. It counted when I was sixteen and you missed my graduation for a spa weekend with Matthew. It counted when I was twenty-six and Dad died, and you wore black Chanel and held my hand and never said a goddamn word about what you knew." I meet her eyes. "It stopped counting the day I realized you'd been choosing him over me my entire life."
"That's not?—"
"Goodbye, Catherine."
She stands frozen in my doorway, mascara streaked, pearls askew, looking nothing like the perfectly composed woman who raised me to believe that weakness was unforgivable.
She looks human.
She looks broken.
She looks exactly like someone who made terrible choices and is finally facing the consequences.
"When this all falls apart," she says quietly, "when the danger catches up—don't come crying to me."
"I won't." I start to close the door. "But when the evidence convicts you? When your affair and conspiracy become public record? When every society friend you've cultivated for thirty years turns their back? When you're sitting in prison wondering where it all went wrong?"
I pause, letting the silence stretch.
"Don't come crying to me either."
The door clicks shut.
I lean against it, suddenly exhausted. My hands are shaking. My chest feels hollow. I just watched my mother crumble, and all I feel is empty.
Dad's lighter sits heavy in my pocket. I pull it out, thumb working the familiar mechanism.
Click snap
Click snap
