CHAPTER 17
ELISE
Nolan wakes before I do and pretends otherwise.
His breathing is too controlled.
I lie still beside him, watching pale morning light gather across the ceiling. My right hand rests on the pillow between us, bandage intact. My left arm is under the blanket, close enough to his chest that moving it will make the night impossible to ignore.
The emergency button remains inside his hand.
His fingers have left a red impression around the small device.
“You can open your eyes,” I say.
He does. No surprise.
“You were awake.”
“I was.”
“How long?”
“Not long.”
“That answer has no measurable value.”
“Fourteen minutes.”
I turn my head. His hair is disordered, one side flattened from sleep.
Without clothing and control arranged around him, he appears younger.
Less like the man who enters rooms knowing every exit, more like someone who has awakened beside a woman and is not certain whether the situation still belongs to him.
His gaze goes to my face, then my hand, then lower beneath the blanket before returning immediately. The sequence warms my skin.
“What?” I ask.
“Pain?”
“My hand or everything else?”
His gaze drops to the sheet. I almost smile.
“My hand is fine. Knee sore. Everything else…” I search for a word that does not sound like a medical report. “Good.”
Relief loosens his shoulders before he can hide it. He opens his hand and looks at the emergency button.
“I didn’t mean to keep this.”
“You fell asleep holding it.”
“I fell asleep holding it.”
“Why?”
His eyes close briefly.
“I was making sure it remained within reach.”
“While unconscious.”
“It was not a sound plan.”
The laugh leaves me before I can prevent it. It is not loud. It does not erase the file waiting to be delivered or the fact that Simon may have killed Theo. It belongs only to the man beside me looking offended by his own sleeping habits. Nolan watches me.
“What?”
“You laughed.”
“I am aware.”
“I have heard you laugh before.”
“Have you?”
“From recordings. Events.”
The reminder cools the room. He hears it too.
“I should not have said that.”
“You should not have.”
He places the button on the nightstand. I sit slowly. The bruise on my knee protests. My body carries a different soreness beneath it, one that makes the previous night present again. Nolan reaches toward my back, then stops.
“I can sit.”
“I know you can.”
The answer is careful. We are learning the same few words from opposite directions.
My clothing is on the floor. His shirt lies near the door.
The sight of both together produces embarrassment and something almost domestic.
I gather the sheet around me. Nolan does not pretend not to look.
The directness is easier than exaggerated privacy.
“What time is the medical evaluation?” he asks.
“Ten.”
“I’ll have the car ready at nine fifteen.”
“I can prepare my own schedule.”
“You can prepare it.”
He pauses.
“Would you like the car ready at nine fifteen?”
The correction is slightly awkward. I appreciate it more because it is not elegant.
“Yes.”
He stands and reaches for his trousers. The scars across his back are more numerous than I noticed last night. Thin pale lines near one shoulder, a small round mark lower down. I want to ask. Not now. He dresses without hurry but with the efficiency of habit. I watch until he turns.
“Do you want privacy?”
The fact that he asks after I have been staring at him naked is nearly funny.
“No.”
His mouth shifts. Possibly a joke occurring in silence. I return to my room before breakfast because I need clothes, medication, and ten minutes inside a space where no evidence of him is visible. The room fails.
My wedding ring is on my hand. His touch remains on my skin. When I open the bathroom cabinet, I see the reflection of my mouth, slightly swollen, and remember his voice saying my name without restraint. I shower. The water makes the stitches sting.
By the time I dress in a navy suit and ivory blouse, the night has been folded into a private part of me that cannot be seen from the boardroom.
Or so I hope. In the kitchen, Nolan has made eggs again.
Mae is already seated at the table. She looks at me.
Then at Nolan. Then at the coffee she has not yet tasted.
“I am choosing professional silence,” she says.
“An unfamiliar condition,” Nolan replies.
Mae’s eyebrows rise. I take the seat across from her. “He sometimes makes jokes.”
“I have worked for him for six years.”
“That does not contradict me.”
Mae smiles into her cup. Nolan places a plate in front of me. No comment about eating. No medication set beside it. A second improvement. The file from Theo is not on the table. I look at him.
“You promised.”
“It is at the office. We go there after the medical evaluation.”
“I want it before.”
“The originals cannot leave the secured room.”
“Copies.”
“Mae is preparing them.”
Mae lifts one hand. “I am.” The answer is reasonable. I still hear delay inside it. Nolan does too.
“You will have everything today,” he says.
I eat because the evaluation will be easier if my body is not shaking for ordinary reasons. At nine fifteen, the car is waiting. Nolan opens the rear door but does not place his hand on my back. The absence is noticeable. I enter.
The physician selected by the board works from an office in Beacon Hill designed to reassure wealthy people that privacy is an architectural feature.
Thick carpet, abstract paintings, a receptionist who speaks softly enough to force everyone else to lower their voices.
Tessa meets us in the waiting room. She wears black today, her curls pinned away from her face.
“Simon submitted additional material this morning,” she says.
“What material?”
“Messages allegedly sent by you to three board members.”
“I didn’t send them.”
“I know you did not.”
“What do they say?”
Tessa hands me printed copies. The messages are not dramatic.
That is what makes them effective. One complains that Malcolm and Simon are conspiring to destroy my career.
Another says Theo has been speaking to me through recordings.
A third suggests I may need to cancel performances because my hand no longer obeys me.
The sentences resemble mine. Not perfectly.
Enough. I read them twice. Nolan watches my face.
“These were sent from my account?”
“A copy of an old private address,” Tessa says. “The account itself was created last week.”
“They used my name.”
“And portions of old emails.”
“How do you know?”
“Mae compared several phrases.”
I look at the first message. I cannot trust the people who call control protection. The sentence sounds like something I might have written recently. But the comma after people is missing. The second includes a semicolon.
I do not use semicolons in personal messages. Theo used to add them when editing my school papers because he believed punctuation could improve my personality.
“This one isn’t mine.”
“We know,” Nolan says.
“I mean the source is not only my writing.”
Tessa leans closer. I point to the semicolon.
“Theo.”
Nolan’s expression sharpens.
“Explain.”
“He used them constantly. Even in text messages. This phrase—‘the shape of the problem’—was his. I use ‘the problem itself.’”
Tessa looks at the page.
“They are combining both of you.”
“Yes.”
The receptionist calls my name. The evaluation lasts ninety minutes.
The physician, Dr. Halpern, is a woman in her sixties with silver hair cut straight at her chin and glasses she removes whenever she asks a question designed to seem casual.
She asks about sleep. I tell her it is poor.
Anxiety. Present. The recording. Disturbing.
My hand. Healing. The marriage. Complicated.
“Did you know Mr. Keir well before the ceremony?”
“No.”
“Was the marriage your idea?”
“No.”
“Did you feel pressured?”
“Yes.”
Her pen pauses.
“By him?”
“By the board, the trust, the threats, the timing, and the fact that someone had entered my apartment.”
“But not by him?”
“He proposed an arrangement that served both of us.”
“Do you consider the marriage emotionally real?”
The question feels invasive because the answer changed last night. I look toward the dark glass on the far wall. Nolan and Tessa are in the next room, though I cannot see them.
“Parts of it are.”
Dr. Halpern studies me.
“You received a message in your dead brother’s voice.”
“Yes.”
“Did you believe it was truly him?”
“For several seconds, I believed the voice was his. I did not believe he was alive.”
“You continued listening.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To understand how it was made.”
“Have you heard his voice since?”
“Publicly, during a reception.”
“And you remained on stage.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because leaving would have served the person who played it.”
“Could remaining have served your need to prove you were unaffected?”
The question reaches too close.
“I was affected.”
“But you remained.”
“Yes.”
“Do you believe admitting fear makes you vulnerable to control?”
I think of Nolan waiting beside the bed until I asked. Of his palm against my chest. Of telling him I was afraid on the stage.
“Sometimes.”
“Is that belief reasonable?”
“Given the existence of this evaluation, yes.”
Dr. Halpern’s mouth changes. Not a smile. Recognition.
“Do you think everyone questioning your choices is attempting to control you?”
“No.”
“Who is not?”
I consider.
“Miriam. Mae, usually. Tessa when she bills by the hour.”
The physician almost smiles.
“And Mr. Keir?”
The answer takes longer.
“He is trying not to.”
Afterward, the board’s attorney asks additional questions in a smaller conference room. Simon attends remotely. His face appears on a screen, careful and concerned. Malcolm sits beside him with his cane across his knees. The attorney places the false messages before me.
“Did you write these?”
“No.”
“They contain personal information.”
“Because they were assembled from personal material.”
“Do you hear voices when no recording is present?”
“No.”
“Have you considered harming yourself?”
“No.”
“Others?”
“No.”
“Do you believe Mr. Creel caused your brother’s death?”
Tessa begins to object. I raise my left hand.
“I believe there are unanswered questions about Theo’s death and Mr. Creel’s access to relevant records.”
“Do you believe he murdered your brother?”
“I do not have enough evidence to claim that.”
Nolan sits beside me. I feel him become still. The attorney turns to my hand.
“Your injury has affected your ability to perform.”
“Temporarily.”
“Your doctor recommended rest.”
“She recommended forty-eight hours without prolonged playing. I followed that advice.”
“Have you performed since?”
“I rehearsed.”
“And made mistakes?”
The question surprises me. Someone reported the late note in the west studio. Only Mae, Jonah, Nolan, and I were present. I look at the screen. Simon’s concern does not change.
“Yes,” I say.
Nolan’s hand moves slightly on the table. I continue before he can intervene.
“I played one note late.”
“Did that frighten you?”
“Yes.”
The attorney pauses. I hear Nolan turn his head.
“I was frightened,” I say, “because my hand had been cut two days earlier by a sabotaged instrument. Fear was an appropriate response. It did not prevent me from beginning again.”
Silence follows. The attorney looks down at his notes. Simon’s expression has tightened. The truth serves me better than the version of control he expected. The physician does not recommend immediate suspension.
She requests a follow-up before the final vote and suggests temporary medical monitoring, which is irritating but not disqualifying. The incapacity petition remains open. Outside, the winter air is sharp enough to make my eyes water. Nolan waits until we reach the car.
“You told her you were afraid.”
“I told her.”
“You did not have to.”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone already knew. Pretending otherwise would make them suspicious of everything else.”
He looks at me.
“That is not the only reason.”
“No.”
I enter the car. Nolan sits opposite.
“I am tired of giving people evidence against me by hiding the evidence that I am human.”
The words remain between us. His gaze lowers to his own hands.
“I may have contributed to that.”
“You did.”
He accepts the statement. My phone vibrates. Malcolm. I almost reject the call. Then I answer.
“What?”
“Elise.” His voice is low. “I need to speak with you privately.”
“You had an opportunity this morning.”
“Not in front of Simon.”
My body becomes alert.
“What is this about?”
“Nolan did not tell you everything.”
Across from me, Nolan’s face changes. I put the call on speaker. Malcolm hears the small electronic shift.
“Are you with him?”
“Yes.”
“Then leave.”
“No.”
“Elise, please.”
My uncle rarely says please unless fear has removed the language he prefers.
“What didn’t he tell me?”
Silence.
Then Malcolm says, “I was the one who gave him permission to watch you.”