Chapter 07 - Lauren Mitchell Was Not the Name That Mattered

We left the ballroom at 1:17 in the morning.

Not together.

That felt important.

Daniel went with his attorney.

Rebecca went with Peter Walsh and two board members who had suddenly remembered they had fiduciary duties.

Michael was asked not to leave the hotel until the company’s outside counsel had copied the documents he brought.

And Ellie came home with me.

In the back seat of the car, she leaned against my shoulder and fell asleep before we reached Lake Shore Drive.

She was still holding the pearls.

I took them gently from her hand.

They were warm.

For four years, those pearls had lived in a velvet box inside my bedroom closet. I had believed they were safe because they were hidden.

I was beginning to understand that hidden and safe were not the same thing.

At home, I carried Ellie upstairs.

She was thirteen and almost as tall as I was, but for a moment she felt like the little girl who used to fall asleep during movies with popcorn still in her fist.

I laid her on the bed and removed her shoes.

Her eyes opened.

“Mom?”

“I’m here.”

“Are you mad at me?”

The question nearly broke me.

“For what?”

“The video.”

“No.”

“I knew it would embarrass Dad.”

I sat beside her.

“Sweetheart, your father embarrassed himself.”

She looked toward the ceiling.

“Grandma said adults sometimes blame the person who tells the truth because they don’t want to blame the person who made it ugly.”

I smiled through tired eyes.

“That sounds like her.”

Ellie reached toward the pearls on my nightstand.

“Why did that email say you didn’t know who Lauren was?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you think Aunt Rebecca sent it?”

“Maybe.”

“Uncle Michael?”

“Maybe.”

“Dad?”

“No.”

That answer came too easily.

I hated that.

Ellie watched me.

“You still love him.”

I looked at my daughter.

There are questions children ask that adults spend years avoiding.

“Yes.”

She nodded.

“That sucks.”

I laughed.

A real laugh.

“Yes.”

She closed her eyes.

“It really does.”

By nine the next morning, there were forty-seven missed calls on my phone.

I ignored forty-six.

The one I answered came from Lauren.

“Claire?”

Her voice sounded different without a ballroom around it.

Smaller.

“What do you want?”

“To tell you who I am.”

I closed my eyes.

“So that email was true.”

“I don’t know about any email.”

“Then start with your real name.”

A pause.

“Lauren Mitchell is my real name.”

“Useful beginning.”

“My mother’s name is Diane Mitchell.”

The name reached somewhere old.

I knew it.

I could not place it.

Lauren heard my silence.

“She worked for Harrison Custom Homes.”

Then I remembered.

Not a face.

A story.

Fifteen years earlier, Daniel came home furious because a bookkeeper had stolen from the company.

Two hundred and sixty thousand dollars.

We had nearly lost a line of credit because of it.

The woman was prosecuted.

I had never met her.

“Diane Mitchell.”

“Yes.”

“Your mother stole from us.”

“No.”

Lauren’s answer was immediate.

“She was convicted.”

“She pled guilty.”

“That is not the same thing.”

I sat at my kitchen table.

The same kind of distinction my mother would have made.

“Why did she plead?”

“Because Frank Harrison told her if she fought the charge, he would make sure she lost custody of me and my brother.”

Daniel’s father.

My throat tightened.

“How could he do that?”

“Her husband had died. We were eight and eleven. She had no money. Frank had a lawyer, a prosecutor he played golf with, and records that made her look guilty.”

I looked toward the stairs.

Ellie was still asleep.

“Did Daniel know?”

Lauren went quiet.

“Lauren.”

“He signed an affidavit.”

The kitchen seemed to tilt.

“What did it say?”

“That he had personally reviewed the transactions and believed my mother created the false vendor.”

“Was that true?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I have his deposition.”

I pressed my fingers to my forehead.

“Why did you come to work for him?”

“To find proof.”

“And sleeping with him was part of the investigation?”

Silence.

Then:

“No.”

I appreciated the answer despite myself.

“When I took the job, I hated him.”

“And later?”

“I didn’t.”

The honesty was almost unbearable.

Lauren continued.

“He was kind to me.”

I laughed once.

“I’m sure he was.”

“I’m not saying that to hurt you.”

“It does anyway.”

“I know.”

She took a breath.

“I thought he was unhappy. I thought your marriage had become an arrangement. He showed me divorce papers.”

“Forged divorce papers.”

“I know that now.”

“You should have verified.”

“Yes.”

“You should have spoken to me.”

“Yes.”

“You should not have slept with a married man.”

Her voice dropped.

“Yes.”

No excuse.

I looked out the kitchen window at the gray Chicago morning.

“Why were you wearing the pearls?”

“He gave them to me yesterday afternoon.”

“And you believed they belonged to his mother.”

“Yes.”

“You have met his mother.”

“Twice.”

“So you knew she could tell you whether they were hers.”

Lauren went quiet.

There it was.

The part of the lie she had helped herself believe.

“I didn’t ask,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because I was afraid of the answer.”

For the first time, I understood her.

Not forgave.

Understood.

Fear made cowards in surprisingly ordinary ways.

“Why call me now?”

“Because there is something else about my mother’s case.”

I waited.

“Your mother contacted Diane before she died.”

My heart kicked.

“What?”

“Margaret believed my mother had been framed.”

“How would she know?”

“She found a payment record in Frank Harrison’s papers.”

“What payment?”

“The missing money did not go to Diane.”

I thought of Peter’s numbers.

Michael took six hundred and forty thousand years later.

Another two hundred and sixty thousand had vanished before that.

“Where did it go?”

Lauren’s voice became very quiet.

“To a horse-betting account controlled by Frank Harrison.”

I closed my eyes.

Daniel had told us his father’s gambling debts came later.

Apparently not.

“Do you have proof?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“My mother has it.”

I opened my eyes.

“Your mother is alive.”

Lauren sounded surprised.

“Yes.”

For some reason I had imagined Diane as dead.

Perhaps because stories become easier when wronged people are conveniently gone.

“Where is she?”

“Naperville.”

“Does Daniel know?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she refuses to see him.”

I understood that too.

Lauren continued.

“She will see you.”

“Why?”

A pause.

“Because Margaret asked her to.”

My mother had been arranging meetings from the grave before any of us knew we needed them.

I felt almost annoyed with her.

“Claire?”

“Yes.”

“There’s one more reason you should come.”

“What?”

“My mother knows who has been using Margaret’s email account.”

I stood.

“Who?”

Lauren hesitated.

“She won’t tell me over the phone.”

At that moment, Ellie appeared at the kitchen doorway in pajamas.

She looked at my face.

“What happened?”

I put the phone down slowly.

“We’re going to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“The woman Grandpa Harrison blamed for stealing from the company.”

Ellie frowned.

“Did she do it?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

I looked at my mother’s pearls on the table.

“I don’t yet.”

Then Lauren said through the speaker:

“But your grandmother did.”