He Accused Me of Stealing, But I Heard the Truth novel · Chapter 3 of 24

Chapter 3: Grilled Cheese in Four

In his penthouse Laurence burns Birdie's first real dinner, Imogen walks in like she lives there, and through the wall Ciara hears him order a quiet search of the fund.

The next evening the rush test came back, and Laurence read it standing in his own kitchen with his coat still on.

Ninety-nine point nine nine percent.

He folded the page in half and put it in his inside pocket without a word.

*Mine. Of course she's mine. Six years.*

I stood at the other end of the island with Birdie on a stool beside me, and I heard all of it.

His penthouse on Lake Shore Drive had a nurse, a guest suite with two beds, and a refrigerator full of food nobody had cooked.

The doctors had let Birdie out of the hospital that morning, on a feeding plan and a pill chart as long as my arm.

"She needs real food," I said. "Not a tray. Something warm."

"My cook is off tonight," Laurence said.

"Then what do you eat?"

"Whatever Imogen orders."

Birdie looked up from her rabbit.

"Can I have a grilled cheese?"

He stared at her.

*I don't know how to make a grilled cheese.*

"You don't know how to make a grilled cheese," I said.

"I'll learn," Laurence said.

It took him twenty minutes, a stained pan, and one slice of bread that went black on both sides.

He stood over the stove in his white shirt with the sleeves pushed up, and he did not ask for help once.

I did not offer.

The smoke alarm went off, and Birdie laughed.

It was small and hoarse, and it was the first time I had heard it in a week.

Laurence turned around with the spatula in his hand.

*That laugh. That's her laugh. That's the same laugh.*

His mind went quiet, and he did not move.

I looked away, because it was too much to hear.

He brought the plate to her stool.

Birdie inspected the sandwich.

"It's in two," she said. "Mommy cuts it in four."

"Four?" said Laurence.

"So there's more of it."

He took the knife and cut it into four.

Birdie ate every piece, slowly, with both hands.

I put my knuckles against my mouth and looked at the ceiling.

*She's eating. She's actually eating. Don't make a sound. Don't scare her.*

"You're allowed to sit," I told him.

He sat on the stool across from her and watched her chew.

The front door opened.

"Laurence? I let myself in."

Imogen came into the kitchen carrying two takeout bags and her cream coat, in the easy walk of a woman who had never knocked in her life.

"I thought no one would think to feed the household," she said. "Ciara, there's soup for Birdie. It's low sodium. I asked her doctor."

It was kind.

That was the worst part of it. It was kind, and warm, and useful, and exactly right.

"Thank you," I said, and I did not move toward the bags.

"Her room is the blue one, down the hall? The one with the window seat?" Imogen said. "I had the bed made up myself."

I looked at her.

I had chosen that room myself an hour ago, from the doorway, while Imogen was across the city.

I had not mentioned it to a soul.

"I've been in every room in this house," she said lightly, to Laurence. "Habit."

Laurence was cutting the last quarter of the sandwich for Birdie.

He did not look up.

*The nurse must have told her.*

That was all. It was nothing.

"I'll take Birdie to bed," Imogen said, and she held out her arms.

"No," I said.

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Our terms," I said. "She is not alone with Birdie. Not for a minute."

"I only meant to carry her down the hall, Ciara."

"I'll do it."

Imogen's face did not change.

"Of course," she said. "You're her mother."

Laurence set down the knife.

"Ms. Dray," he said. "Leave the soup."

She smiled at him with a small, hurt, forgiving smile. Then she set the bags on the counter, kissed the air near his cheek, and went out the way she had come.

I carried Birdie to the blue room myself.

She fell asleep before I had finished the first page of her book.

I stayed on the edge of her bed with my hand on her back, feeling every breath.

At two in the morning I was still awake.

The guest suite shared a wall with Laurence's study, and he was not asleep either.

I could not hear words through the plaster.

I could hear him.

*Six years. Six years, and I went to the donor dinner and I looked at the wall.*

*She didn't take it. The fund. Check who touched the fund. She didn't touch it. I know she didn't touch it.*

Then something hard and quick.

*Pull the whole trail. Quietly. Not Imogen. It can't be Imogen.*

I sat up in the dark.

He was thinking about the money.

He was thinking about her.

I did not know yet which of those he meant to be afraid of.

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