Chapter 12 - THE PRICE OF HIS NAME
The demand was large enough to put Dad’s business in danger if the guarantee were valid.
It wasn’t his signature.
Proving that still took work.
Dad spent the morning with his attorney, pulling board records, correspondence, and the written rejection he had sent Ryan months earlier.
I watched him carry boxes from the study.
He was sixty-three.
For the first time in my life, he looked old.
“I brought this here,” I said.
He set down the box.
“No.”
“If I hadn’t married him—”
“Claire.”
I looked at him.
“The man forged my name. You didn’t.”
I sat on the stairs and cried anyway.
He sat beside me, leaving room for my belly.
“When you were eight,” he said, “you broke Mrs. Donnelly’s birdbath.”
I laughed through my nose.
“That was you.”
“I know. I backed the truck into it.”
“You let me think I did it with my bike.”
“For about ten seconds. Then your mother made me confess.”
I wiped my face.
“Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’ve always been willing to believe something was your fault if someone said it firmly enough.”
That hurt because it was true.
A week later, the lender confirmed it was investigating the disputed guarantee. Dad’s attorney submitted records showing he had declined involvement.
The pressure didn’t disappear.
It moved into files, meetings, and unanswered questions.
Meanwhile, the financial investigation widened. Daniel said other investors had raised concerns about Martin’s company.
Ryan’s attorney asked whether I would consider a private settlement.
The offer included money.
It also included language saying the incident at the hotel had been a misunderstanding.
I read that sentence until the words stopped looking real.
Then I put the paper down.
“No.”
Mara nodded.
“We’ll respond.”
That night, at thirty-three weeks, I woke with a pain that didn’t ease when I changed positions.
Then another came.
May you like
I reached for the lamp.
There was blood on the sheet.
