Chapter 20: Twelve Years of Rent

Quentin's POV

The detective let me go at noon, with a card and a request not to leave the city.

The embezzlement complaint was in her hand, and she tore the top sheet off the pad while I watched.

"Withdrawn," she said. "The person who filed it is in a cell."

I went to the hospital from the station, because I did not know where else to go.

The envelope was still in my coat.

Claire had handed it back to me in the hallway without a word, and I had carried it out in my fist.

She was sitting in the chair by her father's bed, with her cardigan sleeve pushed up and a bruise coming out on her arm.

Frank was propped on his pillows, eating green gelatin with a plastic spoon.

They both looked up.

"I'm not here for her," I said, before Claire could speak.

I crossed the room and laid the envelope on Frank's food tray.

"It's yours, Mr. Corr. The bank. The shares, the building, the name over the door."

Frank looked at the envelope and did not touch it.

"I told her I wouldn't take gifts from you," Claire said.

"Term three," I said. "I know. This isn't one."

"It's a bank, Quentin."

"It's his. Gilbert took it from him with a forged page and I helped him carry it out. I am only handing it back."

Frank put down his spoon.

"I won't take charity from the son of the man I wronged," he said quietly.

Neither of us moved.

"It isn't charity," I said. "It's twelve years of rent."

He opened the envelope.

He read the first page slowly with his glasses on the end of his nose.

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