“Not administration?”
“God, no.”
Lily smiled.
“You were administration.”
“Exactly.”
After dessert, Lily went upstairs to search for an old camera she had left in Claire’s attic years earlier.
Claire and Vanessa remained at the table.
Vanessa traced one finger around the rim of her tea cup.
“You still have the USB?”
Claire looked toward her.
“Why?”
“I don't know.”
Vanessa smiled without humor.
“I was thinking about it.”
“Lily found it recently.”
Vanessa’s hand stopped.
“She did?”
“Yes.”
“Did she watch?”
“No.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
Vanessa nodded.
A long silence followed.
Then she asked:
“Would you ever?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly.
Vanessa looked surprised.
“Why?”
Claire thought.
“Because I know what happened.”
“I don't need to watch you become the worst version of yourself again to remember it accurately.”
Vanessa looked down.
“That's kinder than I deserve.”
Claire sighed.
“Stop doing that.”
“What?”
“Turning everything into punishment.”
Vanessa looked up.
“You're seventy.”
“I’m sixty-eight.”
“Same century.”
“Claire.”
“I’m serious.”
Claire leaned back.
“You apologized.”
“You made restitution.”
“You lost things.”
“You rebuilt other things.”
“If you spend the rest of your life telling yourself you deserve pain, that is still making the story about you.”
Vanessa absorbed that.
It hurt.
Which meant it was probably useful.
“I don't know what to do with guilt when it isn't useful anymore.”
Claire considered.
“Maybe it becomes responsibility.”
Vanessa frowned.
“What's the difference?”
“Guilt asks how bad you are.”
“Responsibility asks what you do next.”
Vanessa stared.
“That sounds annoyingly wise.”
“I’m retired.”
“I've had time.”
Vanessa smiled.
Then her expression changed.
“There is something I never told you.”
Claire’s body reacted before her mind.
Old instinct.
Danger.
Secret.
She noticed and consciously relaxed her shoulders.
“What?”
Vanessa looked toward the staircase.
Lily remained upstairs.
Then:
“Dad confronted me before he died.”
Claire stared.
“What?”
“About Bellevue.”
A cold sensation moved through her.
“When?”
“Three weeks before his heart attack.”
Claire’s voice lowered.
“He knew?”
“Some.”
“What did he know?”
Vanessa looked at her hands.
“He noticed I had requested copies of the ownership records.”
“He asked why.”
“I told him I was helping organize the estate.”
“Then he asked whether you knew.”
“I said yes.”
Claire went still.
Vanessa whispered:
“I lied.”
Claire closed her eyes.
Her father.
Already ill.
Trying to protect Claire.
Creating independent statements.
Writing the letter.
He had suspected.
Maybe more than suspected.
Claire opened her eyes.
“What did he say?”
Vanessa’s voice trembled.