Chapter 4
The company was called Laurel House Consulting.
I had never heard of it.
Miriam came to my house the next morning with the invoices and the filings her team had found. Lauren had registered Laurel House two years earlier.
The paperwork described event planning and family services. It did not explain why Michael’s company had asked the Harrison Family Office to pay Laurel House for “estate coordination.”
“How much?” I asked.
“Three invoices. One was paid last spring. Two are on hold.”
I read the paid invoice twice.
At the bottom was an approval from an accounts manager who had left the office months earlier. The manager had been told that I had given verbal consent.
I had not.
“Can we recover the payment?” I asked.
“We’ll ask for an explanation first. I’ve called our attorney, Daniel Price, to review it.”
I hated the way my stomach turned at the mention of an attorney. Michael was still my son. I remembered his first lost tooth, his wedding, and the way he had cried against my shoulder when Thomas died.
I also remembered the words on the runway.
Miriam seemed to read my face.
“Looking into a payment isn’t deciding what it means,” she said.
“I know.”
By noon, Michael was at my front door.
He stood on the porch holding the cardigan I had left at his house the previous winter. It was a clumsy peace offering, but I opened the door.
“I brought this back,” he said.
“Thank you.”
He stepped inside without waiting to be invited. Once, that would have felt natural. That morning, I noticed it.
“Lauren says you’re going through our private finances.”
“I’m reviewing requests made to the office.”
“She has a business.”
“I can see that.”
“She helped organize some of Dad’s charity events.”
“After he died?”
Michael paused.
“She helped with follow-up work.”
“Then I’d like to see what work she did.”
He set the cardigan down.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
His face hardened. “You think we stole from you.”
“I don’t know what happened. That’s why I’m asking.”
“Lauren worked for months on those events.”
“Then there will be records.”
He paced to the window and back. I let him.
Finally, he said, “She took care of donor calls. Seating plans. Gifts. You weren’t up to dealing with it.”
I had been grieving Thomas. I could still remember sitting through those meetings with Miriam and the charity director. I remembered writing thank-you notes at this very table.
“Who asked Lauren to do that work?”
“I did.”
“Did you agree on a fee?”
“Yes.”
“Did you tell me?”
“I thought Miriam knew.”
I looked at him.
He looked away first.
My phone rang. It was Lauren.
Michael answered before I could reach it. He put her on speaker.
“I’m with Mom,” he said.
Lauren’s voice came through sharp and clear.
“Did you tell her the invoice was for real work?”
“Yes.”
“Then why is she making this into a criminal matter?”
“I haven’t,” I said.
“Oh. You’re there.”
“It’s my kitchen.”
For a second, nobody spoke.
Then Lauren said, “Eleanor, I did everything your office was too busy to do after Thomas died. I deserve to be paid.”
“If you did that work, please send the details to Miriam.”
“I shouldn’t have to defend myself to someone who’s disliked me since the wedding.”
“I gave a speech at your wedding.”
“You gave a speech about Michael.”
I remembered the speech. Perhaps she was right that I had spoken more about my son. I had not known she carried it as a wound.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel left out,” I said. “The invoices still need an explanation.”
Lauren laughed once, without warmth.
“There it is.”
She ended the call.
Michael rubbed his forehead.
“You could have let that go.”
“I listened to her.”
“You apologized and went straight back to the money.”
“Both things matter.”
He picked up his car keys.
At the door, he turned.
“Emma says she doesn’t trust me.”
“That will take a conversation between you and Emma.”
“She used to believe me.”
I felt an ache for him, despite everything.
“Then tell her the truth now.”
He left without answering.
That evening, Daniel Price called. He had reviewed the invoice and the approval process. He said we needed records before drawing conclusions, but the verbal consent written on the payment was a serious concern.
“Can you find the former manager?” I asked.
“Miriam already has. She’s willing to talk tomorrow.”
I went upstairs after the call and opened the cedar chest at the foot of my bed. Thomas had kept cards from Michael there: crooked drawings, Father’s Day notes, a photograph of the two of them covered in flour after making a birthday cake.
For years, I had thought of those as proof that the boy I knew was still close enough to reach.
My phone buzzed.
A message from Emma.
Dad says I shouldn’t call you while everyone is upset. I wanted you to know I’m okay.
I typed back that I loved her and that she did not need to take care of the adults.
Then another message appeared.
I heard Mom tell Dad that if you see the old event emails, everything will get worse.
I stared at the words.
I did not want Emma searching for anything or carrying secrets for me.
Please leave that to me, I wrote. You haven’t done anything wrong.
A minute later, she sent a heart.
May you like
I went downstairs and called Miriam.
“Find the old event emails,” I said.
