11. Knox #2
“Hey, I was getting worried,” she says. There’s some noise in the background but I can’t make out details. “Are you okay?”
That’s a loaded question.
“Yeah. I was helping my father out with some invoices and it got late.” The lie slips out easily. “Didn’t feel like driving.”
“Good, I’m glad you stayed then. Your mom called me a little while ago. She wants to finalize the menu today.”
“I’ll talk to her.”
“She also mentioned the guest list grew again. Apparently your father added some people.”
“Ella.” I press two fingers against my temple. “I just woke up. Can we—”
“Right. Sorry.” She’s quiet for a beat. “Will you be home later?”
“Yeah. Give me a few hours.”
“Okay. I was hoping we can move some more boxes from my place.”
That’s the last thing I want but I need to get her off the phone. “Yeah, sounds good.”
I hang up before she can add anything else and sit there for a moment with the phone in my hand, telling myself that I’m nothing but a pussy. Then finally, I get up, splash water on my face in Owen’s bathroom, and head downstairs.
My mother’s on the couch, scrolling her phone.
She’s dressed more formally than I expected.
A black skirt, and the shirt looks like silk or some other expensive fabric.
She even has heels on. Her hair is greasy, though, probably hasn’t been washed in days, and as I get closer, I notice that the buttons on her shirt are in the wrong holes and it looks like she put on her makeup in the dark.
“Knox?” She smiles when she sees me, but her lips move slower than they should. “I didn’t know you were here. Are you hungry? There’s some coffee left in the pot.”
“I’m fine.” I come around the couch and lean against the doorframe. “Where’s dad?”
She looks around the room. “Is he not home?”
“No clue, but he’d usually be stomping around by now.”
Her phone beeps, loud and jarring. She looks down at it, ignoring me. I head over and check out my father’s home office. Empty. Then I check the catch all table by the door. Keys gone.
When I come back into the living room, I have to clear my throat to get her attention again. “He’s not here.”
“He’s probably at the office then.” She puts her phone down and picks up a mug of coffee that’s been on the table in front of her. “A meeting or something.”
“He was at the office yesterday too,” I say.
“Well, your father’s a busy man.”
I want to say he hasn’t been a busy man in years, not in the ways that count, but I keep my mouth shut. She sips her coffee, spilling a dribble down her chin. I wait for her to realize but after a few seconds, she doesn’t, so I crouch beside her.
“Mom.”
Her eyes meet mine. Up close, they’re glassy. “We should talk about table arrangements. I called Sawyer, told her that your father added more to the list.”
My heart stops. She said Sawyer.
“Sawyer?”
She blinks, mouth hanging open. “Why would you bring her up?”
“I didn’t,” I say. “You did.”
“What? Why would I do that?”
“Mom.” I hold my head in my hand. When I look back at her, she has her phone again, clicking open an app. “Are you okay?”
She doesn’t look up from her phone. “I’m fine, Knox. I just have a lot to coordinate.”
I stay crouched beside her for a moment, looking at her face. The glassy eyes, the wrong buttons, the smudged lipstick she doesn’t know is there. It’s not even ten in the morning. What the hell is she on?
“Mom.” I take the mug gently out of her hand and set it on the table. “When did you last eat something?”
“I’m having coffee.” She waves a hand. “There’s leftovers in the fridge. I’ll have some later.”
“That’s not—”
“The florist called about the centerpieces.” She looks at her screen, taps on something. “Friday. We lose the order if I don’t…Your father keeps saying ask you and Ella, but Ella says ask you, so.” She looks up and her eyes take a second to find mine. “Tall or low?”
“Tall or low what?”
“Centerpieces, of course.”
“Low, I guess. Whatever you think.”
“Maybe tall,” she says, and she waves me off. “I need to make a call.”
Jesus Christ.
She needs some help. I know I’m one to talk, but something is seriously wrong and I’m scared. I’m scared she’s going to slide back to how she was again.
Too bad I can’t talk to my prick of a father about it. If I want to help, I’ll have to do it myself.
I go down the hall to my father’s office, close the door, and stand there in the quiet. This makes two days in a row that he’s at the office early. Whatever the hell he’s doing, I’ll bet Moretti’s involved.
I try my father’s cell. It rings once and goes to voicemail.
His filing cabinet is right there. He’s never liked me to touch it, but I’ve had to go in there a handful of times over the years. If his office computer was a dead end, I’ll bet there’s something in that old metal box.
It’s too early for this shit and I’m too tired. But this may be the only chance I have to look around.
The first drawer is nothing but yearly tax forms going back the past couple years. Could be worthwhile info in there, but it’s not screaming scandal.
I close it and pull open the second. Its uneven track squeals and I hold my breath for a second.
He’s not here.
Shaking my head at my jumpiness, I flip through files, searching for anything having to do with Moretti or Thorne. I find a file labelled Victoria and grab it. It’s not what I’m here for, but why the hell does he have a file on my mother?
I drop it on the desk and squeeze my fist before opening.
It’s medical records. Prescription receipts. All of it with doctor’s names I don’t recognize. Different doctors from our main family primary. A quick flip through shows that these go back years. Even before the scandal.
Symptoms of depression and anxiety. Paranoia and mania. Physical symptoms like body shakes and shortness of breath. And there’s so many different medications prescribed…some that I’ve never heard of.
He’s known about her health issues all this time. That fucking prick knew how fragile she was—still is—and continues to do this to her. To all of us.
I’m fucking shaking, I’m so angry. If he were here right now, I don’t think I could hold back. I wouldn’t want to. I take a few breaths and open my tracking app out of habit, seeing it still empty, and close my eyes.
I have to find something. I won’t stop looking until I do.
When I finish skimming the second drawer, I shove my mother’s file away and yank open the third. It sticks when I pull it also, and I wonder how old this cabinet really is. My father’s always been for show. I’m surprised he’s kept this eye sore for so long.
This one holds manila files with no tabs.
At least ten of them. I crack them open—most are empty, some hold what looks like old blueprints and contracts.
Thorne’s name on them along with ours. A school they expanded.
A townhouse project along the river—that one made them tons of money back then. A parking garage in the city.
Then I spot a file toward the back, almost hidden. I pull it out and peek inside. The document heading reads: Aldrich & Thorne Development—Wonder World, Phase II.
My pulse picks up and I keep going, photographing every page in the file.