Chapter 7 - THE PERSON ON THE COPY LINE
Fiona arrived at Mara’s office the next day without jewelry or makeup. Her wedding ring flashed against the cardboard box she carried. Inside were printed emails, draft invoices, and a planner full of notes in her precise handwriting. She asked Mara for independent counsel before she spoke formally. I was relieved she understood the difference between telling the truth and expecting me to rescue her.
Her attorney joined us that afternoon. Fiona explained that Celeste had offered to organize the reception through Beacon Event Services, calling it an advance from a family account. Fiona had forwarded descriptions of flowers, lighting, and catering to the assistant for “reclassification.” She knew the labels were false. She claimed she had believed the account belonged to Aidan’s company, not to the restoration fund.
Mara asked whether Fiona had ever checked. “No,” she said. The word lay between us with more weight than the excuses that followed. She had enjoyed the wedding, admired the roses, and let someone else explain away the bill. Her admission did not make her an innocent witness. It made the investigation harder for everyone who loved her.
She turned toward me. “I knew Dad was going to make a joke. I didn’t know he’d have Noah spill a whole tray.” I thought of the moment on camera when she had spoken to the waiter. She said she had told him to bring wine out on schedule. Later, Aidan told her the waiter would give me a little splash so I would leave early. She had said nothing to stop him.
I did not reach for her hand. “You had time to call me,” I said. Fiona stared at the box. “I know.” For the first time since we were children, she let silence stand without decorating it. I wanted to comfort her; I wanted to make her sit with the discomfort. Both feelings were true.
The forensic examiner called with news about the guarantee. A scanned signature image had been pasted into the document from an older consulting agreement. Its tiny printing defects and a stray speck beneath the last letter matched the earlier scan exactly. More significantly, the lender’s electronic file showed the guarantee was uploaded through Aidan’s business account after my advisory resignation.
That did not identify the person who placed the image there. The examiner made the limits clear. But it contradicted my father’s claim that I had signed in person before a board meeting. My Montreal travel records and courthouse marriage certificate supplied the rest of that day’s timeline. The secret wedding he had mocked as a fantasy became evidence he could not easily dismiss.
Celeste requested a meeting in the evening. She chose a public café near the courthouse, perhaps hoping witnesses would make us polite. Her dark coat was immaculate, her hair pinned in the same twist she had worn beside Fiona at the head table. She looked exhausted only when she saw the copy of the altered invoice.
“I told him the fund could repay the expenses when the pledged money arrived,” she said. “I believed it.” I asked whether she had told the trustees. She stirred untouched coffee until the spoon struck the cup. “Aidan said bringing them in would frighten donors.” Her reasoning had protected the fraud exactly as he had intended.
She admitted she had directed the assistant to change the event invoices. She also knew the contractor’s certificates were questionable but said Aidan handled construction. Mara would need her account formally, supported by records, before it could help the board. Celeste asked whether I would keep Fiona’s name out of the investigation. I told her that protecting Fiona now meant letting her speak honestly with counsel.
My mother gripped the edge of the table. “I called you a spinster because I thought you came alone to embarrass us,” she said. “I had no idea about Julian.” I waited for an apology that had nothing to do with my husband’s name. She looked away. It was answer enough for that evening.
Outside, Fiona stood beneath the café awning with Graham. He had come because she asked, not because he had promised to stay. They walked side by side toward the train, a few inches between their sleeves. I saw that the distance might narrow or widen in the coming months, and neither outcome belonged to me.
May you like
Back at home, Julian had made dinner and forgotten the bread in the oven. We ate the unburned center with soup, laughing once at how badly he had misjudged the timer. The laughter did not dissolve what had happened. It reminded me that our house could contain something besides the case.
Later, I wrote Fiona a message that took nearly an hour to finish. I told her I appreciated the records, that I would answer questions about the project if her lawyer needed facts, and that I could not tell her how quickly we would be sisters again. She replied with only two words: I understand. I set my phone down without feeling the usual pressure to make her feel better.
