Chapter 8 - THE ENGAGEMENT RING
Walter Briggs was charged with Edward Ellison's murder.
The confession at the terminal helped.
So did the ledger.
Thomas received immunity on several financial offenses in exchange for cooperation, but not everything.
He had spent years hiding evidence.
He accepted responsibility.
Diana visited him before sentencing.
I didn't ask what they said.
Some conversations don't belong to you simply because you love someone involved.
That word complicated things.
Love.
I still loved Diana.
I also didn't trust her.
Both could be true.
She moved out permanently.
Returned every gift I'd ever given her.
Even things I hadn't asked for.
She resigned from the Caldwell Foundation after discovering how much of its original endowment came from the hush payment to her grandfather.
Then she did something I didn't expect.
She liquidated her personal stake and put most of it into a fund for families affected by Walter's shell-company fraud.
No press release.
I learned from the attorneys.
Grant remained at Ellison.
But not as CEO.
Neither did I.
We appointed an independent chief executive and opened the old books to external review.
Our father's company had survived seventeen years because everyone believed protecting the name mattered more than exposing the truth.
We stopped doing that.
Rosa resigned.
That surprised me more than anything.
“Why?”
She stood in my office wearing jeans instead of her housekeeping uniform.
“I've been cleaning other people's homes since I was nineteen.”
“You're excellent at it.”
She stared.
“That sounded better in my head.”
“It did not.”
“Sorry.”
She laughed.
“I want to finish school.”
“What were you studying?”
“Accounting.”
Of course.
“What do you need?”
“Nothing.”
“Rosa.”
“Marcus.”
Same tone Lily used.
Terrifying family.
“I have savings.”
“Enough?”
“No.”
“Then—”
“I applied for scholarships.”
“And?”
“I got one.”
She smiled.
“For single parents returning to school.”
I felt absurdly proud.
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
Then she added:
“I may need a reference.”
I stared.
“You want the billionaire whose house you cleaned to write your college reference?”
“Unless that's beneath you.”
I smiled.
“Get out.”
She did.
Grant and Rosa didn't suddenly become siblings.
There was no tearful montage.
They had coffee.
It went badly.
They tried again.
Better.
Grant met Lily.
Lily called him Uncle Grumpy.
It stuck.
Three months after Walter's arrest, I met Diana at The Met.
Public place.
Neutral ground.
She looked beautiful.
That remained inconvenient.
We walked.
No touching.
Eventually she said:
“Do you hate me?”
“No.”
“That almost makes it worse.”
“I was furious.”
“You should be.”
“I still don't trust you.”
“You shouldn't.”
“Stop agreeing with everything.”
She smiled.
There she was.
The woman beneath the strategy.
“I miss you,” she said.
I looked at a painting instead of her.
“I miss you too.”
She started crying.
Quietly.
“I wish that were enough.”
“So do I.”
It wasn't.
We didn't reunite.
Not then.
I went home alone.
And for the first time in years, the penthouse felt enormous.
Not peaceful.
Empty.
On the dining-room floor, beneath the table where the black package had been found, something glittered.
I bent down.
The engagement ring.
Walter must have dropped it the night he searched Diana's apartment? No.
Impossible.
Then I noticed the stone was missing.
This was a replica.
Inside the band, tiny letters had been engraved.
M.E. — OPEN THE SECOND FILE.
Thomas.
Another clue.
I called him.
He laughed from federal detention.
“You finally found it.”
“You planted this?”
“Before the engagement dinner.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew Walter would take the real ring.”
“What second file?”
Silence.
“Thomas.”
“Your father kept two tapes.”
My blood went cold.
“Where is the second?”
“Ask the person Edward trusted with the thing he loved most.”
I thought of Grant.
Wrong.
My mother.
Dead.
Then I understood.
Not a person.
A place.
My father loved one thing outside his family.
An old Steinway piano.
It still stood in the penthouse.
I opened the bench.
Nothing.
Then the underside.
A cassette.
Seventeen years old.
My father's handwriting.
May you like
FOR MARCUS AND GRANT — WHEN YOU'RE READY.
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