Chapter 14: Sold

Hayes's POV

I watched the clip of Clara at the podium until Rory took my phone out of my hand.

"She said it better than you did," he said.

"I know."

"Don't call her. She'll know why."

"I know that too."

"The complaint against her fellowship came in under the Crane Foundation's lawyer," Rory said. "I checked with the board's office."

"Then I'll answer it."

I wrote the board a signed statement that night, at the kitchen table.

It said the call was mine to answer, that my wife had done nothing but work and bleed, and that the person who should be reviewed was me.

I sent it before I could soften it.

I put the house on the market that afternoon.

A client who had wanted it for two years came the next morning, walked through every room without taking off his coat, and offered cash.

He did not ask why I was selling.

He had seen the Long Center video, and his wife had sent it to him with a message I could guess.

I signed in my own kitchen at the table where Clara had eaten a hundred cold dinners alone.

Philippa had left an apron on the back of a chair.

I put it in a bag for the door and watched the buyer's lawyer count the pages.

The money would clear in three days.

I drove to the Pecan Tree Motel on the east side the next evening with a bank letter in my breast pocket.

It said that nine hundred and fifty thousand dollars was ready to move to the account of Amos Tillman.

That was half of what I owed him, and it was every cent I had that did not belong to the firm.

Amos opened the door with his magnifier glasses pushed up on his forehead and a small screwdriver in his hand.

He had a travel case open on the bed, and a clock movement taken apart on a white cloth.

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