„Du hast recht“, murmelte ich und blickte auf meine Hände. „Ich sollte mich bei Sabrina entschuldigen, wenn sie aufwacht. Vielleicht fahre ich sogar heute Morgen in die Stadt und hole ihr ihre Lieblingsgebäcke aus der französischen Bäckerei. Um ihr zu zeigen, dass ich es gut meine.“
Garrick lächelte – ein kleines, selbstgefälliges Lächeln umspielte seine Lippen. „Das wäre ein Anfang. Nimm die Limousine. Fahr nicht zu schnell. Deine Reflexe waren in letzter Zeit nicht die besten.“
I didn’t panic. Forty years of teaching unruly high schoolers had taught me that terror was a luxury that surrendered control to the bully. I quietly plugged a flash drive into the side of the laptop, downloaded four months of statements, captured screenshots of every single payee reference number, and transferred the local transaction receipts.
I pulled the drive out, slipped it deep into the pocket of my wool cardigan, and closed the browser window just as Garrick appeared in the kitchen doorway.
He was wearing his silk pajama pants and an old college sweatshirt, his eyes puffy with sleep, his jaw rigid with lingering hostility from the night before. He looked so much like his father around the mouth and eyes, yet the warmth that had defined Julian was entirely absent. In its place was a calculating, hollow impatience.
“You’re up early,” Garrick said, his tone dry and accusatory. He walked past me to the coffee maker, glancing sideways at my screen, which now displayed a harmless crossword puzzle.
“Old habits,” I replied smoothly, taking a sip of my cold coffee without blinking. “When you turn sixty-five, Garrick, you realize mornings are too short to waste in bed.”
He scoffed, leaning against the counter with both hands. “Speaking of last night, Mom… we need to talk. Seriously. What you did to Sabrina’s bag was psychotic. Do you understand what people are saying? Aunt Clara texted me on the way home asking if you were having a nervous breakdown.”
There it was. Aunt Clara—the town gossip. Sabrina had likely already primed her before the party even started.
“Psychotic is an interesting word, Garrick,” I said, looking directly into his eyes. “Your wife deliberately ruined my birthday cake in front of my guests. A cake my sister baked from our mother’s recipe. My hand slipped when I picked up her purse. Clumsiness isn’t a crime, is it? Isn’t that what you two always tell me when things go missing or break around here?”
Garrick’s jaw tightened. A vein pulsed along his temple. “Stop playing games, Mom! You didn’t slip! You stood there, looked her dead in the eye, and dropped it into the fire! Sabrina cried herself to sleep. That bag was a limited edition. You owe her twenty-five hundred dollars. I checked your account balance yesterday—you can easily afford it.”
My heart skipped a beat, but my face remained carved from stone. *He checked my balance yesterday.* Which meant he knew exactly how much was left. He knew there was barely eleven hundred dollars remaining in that checking account, and he was pushing me to write a check that would bounce—creating yet another record of financial mismanagement.
“If you say so, Garrick,” I said softly, letting my voice waver just enough to sound fragile, exhausted, defeated. “I… I don’t know what came over me. Maybe I am just tired. Julian’s absence… it weighs on me.”
Garrick’s posture softened, but not with sympathy. It was the predatory relaxation of a hunter seeing an animal stumble into a snare.
“Look, Mom,” he said, his voice dropping into that nauseatingly patronizing tone he had adopted over the last few months. “Sabrina and I know it’s hard. We know you’re struggling to keep track of things. That’s why we’re here. But you have to work with us. You can’t be acting out violently. If you can’t manage your emotions, people are going to start asking questions we can’t protect you from.”
“You’re right,” I murmured, looking down at my hands. “I should apologize to Sabrina when she wakes up. In fact, maybe I’ll go into town this morning and pick up her favorite pastries from the French bakery. To show good faith.”
Garrick smiled—a small, smug curl of his lips. “That would be a start. Take the sedan. Don’t drive too fast. Your reflexes haven’t looked great lately.”
