My father stopped speaking for several minutes after hearing.
Then he asked,
“What was she doing?”
The mechanic’s answer:
“Standing beside the open hood.”
14
My stepmother finally asked to speak with my father.
His attorney said no.
I said yes.
My father stared at me.
“You don’t have to see her.”
“I know.”
“She could manipulate this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
“Because I want to hear what she says when she knows we know.”
The meeting happened at an attorney’s office.
Not our house.
Not hers.
Two lawyers present.
My father.
Me.
My grandmother waited outside.
My stepmother entered wearing a cream-colored blouse and dark pants.
No burgundy.
No jewelry.
No makeup beyond what looked necessary.
She seemed smaller.
Then she saw me.
Her face hardened.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
I almost smiled.
“You don’t get to tell me where I should be anymore.”
Her attorney interrupted.
“We’re here to discuss marital and financial matters.”
I placed the photograph of her near the sedan on the table.
“Then explain that.”
Her eyes moved downward.
Only for a second.
But I saw it.
“You were there before my mother died.”
She looked at my father.
“You brought your daughter into this?”
My father answered quietly.
“You brought her into it when you put a necklace in her backpack.”
Her attorney whispered something.
She ignored him.
“I didn’t know what my sister was involved in.”
“You knew my brother,” my father said.
“I had seen him.”
“You knew the company.”
“My sister mentioned it.”
“You knew my wife was investigating.”
Silence.
My father leaned forward.
“Did you know her?”
My stepmother looked toward the photograph.
“I met her once.”
My father went pale.
“You told me you never met her.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
I laughed.
Everyone looked at me.
“Sorry.”
I shook my head.
“I just love that phrase.”
My stepmother frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing matters until somebody proves you lied.”
She looked away.
My father asked, “Why were you near the car?”
“I don’t remember.”
“A mechanic remembers you.”
“That was twelve years ago.”
“He remembers you opening the hood.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“Were you there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know if you opened the hood of the car my wife died in six hours later?”
Her attorney intervened.
“My client will not answer questions about an active investigation.”
My father sat back.
Then I asked something else.
“Why did you marry him?”
My stepmother looked at me.