Chapter 9: The Word Debt

Maxwell was parked at the curb outside the studio with the engine running.

I got in and told him my father had called.

"Don't go," he said.

"Mom is at a charity lunch until four. He said now."

"It's a trap."

"It's my father," I said. "He's not smart enough for a trap. He's only scared."

Maxwell looked at me, and then he pulled into traffic and took the highway north without another word.

The house in Greenwich was quiet when we got there.

I let myself in with the key I had never turned in.

Dad was in his study, in the leather chair, in yesterday's shirt.

A glass sat on the desk with two fingers of something amber in it, and a stack of unopened mail was pushed to one side.

"Hazel," he said. He stood too fast. "You came."

"You said it was urgent."

"It is. It is. Sit, sweetheart, sit."

I stayed standing.

Maxwell stayed in the front hall. I could feel him there, a quiet weight at my back.

"I saw you on the television," Dad said. "You were very good."

"Dad."

"You embarrassed Preston."

"He embarrassed himself."

"Hazel." He came around the desk with both hands out. "I need you to sign the paper. The one the lawyer sent. It's just paper, honey. It's nothing."

"It hands him my votes."

"It's formalities. It's for the board."

"Why does it matter to you?"

His hands dropped.

"Because he'll make things right if you do," he said. "He promised. He said once you sign, it'll all be settled, and everyone can go home."

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