Chapter 4 - THE HOUSEKEEPER'S ACCOUNT
Iris Monroe arrived the next morning with a gray-haired attorney and an expression that seemed practiced from years of keeping her thoughts concealed. Caleb stood as she entered. She looked at him, pressed a hand to her chest, and began to cry before either of them spoke. Caleb waited until she could see his face, then signed hello. Iris answered with imperfect but recognizable signs. Her hands trembled. He reached across the table and held them still for a moment.
Iris had worked for the Vales for twelve years. She had known Caleb's mother as a woman who sang while washing dishes even though servants stood ready to do the work. She remembered Helen practicing signing with her son when they played games in the kitchen, years before Caleb lost his hearing, because a neighbor's child used sign language and Helen wanted both boys included. Caleb smiled through sudden tears at this memory. Nobody had ever told him his mother had learned it by choice.
Two weeks before the explosion, Iris said, Helen packed a small suitcase and told her she was separating from Dominic. She had arranged to stay with a cousin while finding a place Caleb could visit safely. She had also asked an accountant to make copies of documents she feared would disappear. Iris knew none of the details. “I heard arguments,” she said. “I saw papers. But I never saw Dominic threaten to kill her, and I won't claim that I did.” Rebecca nodded appreciatively at the care of her distinction.
On the night of the explosion, Iris had been told by the estate manager to take a paid day off and leave before six. She found it strange because Helen usually wanted someone in the house whenever Caleb visited. Iris telephoned Helen, who sounded distracted but insisted everything was fine. A few hours later, fire engines swept past Iris's apartment toward the lake. Iris discovered what had happened on the television news. “I kept asking why she stayed there,” she said. “No one would give me an answer.”
The photograph from Rebecca's envelope unsettled her. She recognized the car but not the driver. It belonged, she thought, to North Pier Services, whose vehicles sometimes brought technicians to the property. The original security contractor had been changed in the weeks before the explosion. Rebecca asked for the names of anyone who might still have schedules or invoices. Iris gave three possibilities and warned that some of them had worked for Dominic long after the fire.
After Iris left, Caleb demanded to know whether Rebecca believed him. She answered with a precision I came to admire. “I believe that you have good reason to request a serious investigation. I cannot yet say who caused the explosion, or whether it was deliberate. My job is to make sure the evidence survives the questions.” Caleb's hands slowed. He had perhaps expected either instant loyalty or instant dismissal. Being believed in the need to investigate without having his conclusion adopted was harder, but it also seemed to steady him.
Then Dominic called. Caleb stared at his father's name until the phone stopped vibrating. A minute later a text appeared: YOU ARE BEING USED BY PEOPLE WHO WANT YOUR MONEY. COME HOME AND WE CAN TALK. Caleb wrote back a single sentence. I am home. I will speak to you with my attorney present. Dominic's reply was immediate: YOU WOULD HIRE A STRANGER AGAINST YOUR OWN FATHER? Caleb showed it to Rebecca, who suggested he preserve it and not continue the exchange.
That evening I worked a double shift at Bellamy's. I had assumed Dominic would never return after our first encounter, but shortly before ten his familiar black car stopped outside. He entered without bodyguards visible, requested a table in my section, and ordered black coffee. Peter looked at me helplessly. I considered refusing service. Then I remembered that a refusal might become another story Dominic could tell about a meddling waitress, and I decided to keep the interaction professional.
Dominic watched me set down his cup. “You met my son again,” he said. I didn't answer. He lifted a hand. “Don't insult me with denials. He has never before demanded a lawyer. I assume you encouraged him.” “Caleb made his own decision.” Dominic's face changed almost imperceptibly at the word own. “You know nothing about the years after the accident,” he said. “You weren't there when he stopped speaking. You weren't there when he wouldn't let anybody touch him.”
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For the first time, grief—not merely power—entered his voice. It didn't excuse anything I had seen. It did remind me that even cruel people can tell true stories about their pain. “Then perhaps you should tell Caleb those things,” I said. “Not me.” Dominic looked toward the window. “He won't listen.” I met his gaze. “You could try making sure he can understand you.”
Dominic left a folded bill under the coffee saucer and walked away. Beneath it was a small card with a private phone number. On the reverse he had written: Ask Caleb what happened the hour before the explosion. I don't think he remembers.
