She had breakfast. She's calm. But she looked at Holt with a careful assessing expression. She doesn't know a visitor is coming. That's all right, Holt said.
I can wait outside if you want to prepare her. Patricia looked at him a moment longer, then nodded. Give me 5 minutes. He and Camille stood in the hallway. Neither of them spoke.
There was nothing to say that the moment wasn't already saying. Patricia came back in 4 minutes. She wants to see you, she said to Holt directly. I told her Margaret's husband was here. He hadn't expected that.
He'd prepared for confusion, for redirection, for the careful navigation of a mind that moved in and out of the present. He hadn't prepared for Margaret's husband was here to produce an immediate clear response. He looked at Camille. Go, she said softly. He walked into the sitting room.
Eleanor Hadley was smaller than she'd looked in the photographs. She was sitting upright in an armchair, a blanket across her lap, her hands folded over each other with the particular dignity of a woman who had spent a lifetime in rooms where composure was expected. Her hair was white. Her cheekbones were exactly what he'd seen in the photographs and in Claire's face for 11 years and in Marlowe's face every single day. She looked at him when he walked in and her eyes were clear, completely, startlingly clear.
You're Holt, she said. Yes, ma'am, he said. Sit down, she said. Please. He sat in the chair across from her.
She looked at him for a long moment, the way old people sometimes looked at you without the social filtering that made younger people glance away. Direct. Taking inventory. She chose well, Eleanor said. Something cracked open in his chest.
He kept his face still. She was the best person I ever knew, he said. Eleanor's eyes went bright. She held it together. So did he, just barely.
I made a terrible mistake, she said. When she was born, I was 22 years old and I was afraid and I made a decision. I spent the next 30 years trying to find a way to undo. She paused. I sent her a photograph when she was grown.
I found her through a private service. I never contacted her directly. I didn't have the right, but I sent the photograph through an intermediary just so she would know I existed. She kept it, Holt said. She kept it for as long as I knew her.
Eleanor closed her eyes just for a moment. She never came, she said, not as accusation, as fact. I I she was working up to it, he said. I think she was getting ready. He reached into his jacket and took out the photograph.
His photograph. He leaned forward and placed it on the table between them. Eleanor looked at it. Her hand moved toward it and stopped just short. That's my handwriting, she said.
On the back. Yes, he said. She finally touched it, picked it up, looked at herself young holding an infant she was about to give away, and she held the photograph with both hands and didn't say anything for a long time. Holt let her have it, all of it, every second. Then she looked up.
Patricia said Margaret had a daughter, she said. Her name is Marlo, Holt said. She's 11 years old. She plays soccer and she argues about everything and she has her mother's eyes. Eleanor Hadley smiled.
It was the smile from the photograph, full and unguarded and thrown back, and seeing it on an old woman's face in a Boston sitting room hit Holt somewhere so deep he had to look at his hands for a second to find his footing. Will you bring her? Eleanor asked. Yes, he said. I will bring her.
When? Soon, he said. There are some things I need to finish first, to make sure she's protected, to make sure what belongs to her actually reaches her. Eleanor's expression sharpened. Spencer, she said.
He looked at her. I know about Spencer, she said. Her voice was flat and clear. I'm not entirely gone, young man, not yet. I have good days.
She straightened in her chair. On my good days, I understand exactly what my son has been doing and exactly why you're here. Holt was quiet for a moment. Then you know it's being handled, he said. Is it?
As of this morning, he said. Yes. She held his gaze, evaluating. Then something settled in her face. Good, she said.
He stood to leave. She reached out and caught his hand. Her grip surprisingly strong, the grip of a woman who had held on to things a very long time. Tell her, Eleanor said. Tell Marlow that I'm sorry I wasn't there from the beginning.
Tell her I know it doesn't fix anything, but tell her. I will, he said. She released his hand. He walked back into the hallway where Camille was waiting. She looked at his face and didn't ask questions, just touched his arm briefly once, and that was enough.
His phone buzzed. Thea. Text message. Injunction filed as of 11:14 a. M.
Spencer's management authority is frozen pending review. His attorney called me 11 minutes after filing. Spencer is furious. Then a second message, 30 seconds later. He's calling an emergency press conference for this afternoon.
He's going public. Holt showed the messages to Camille. She read them. Her expression didn't waver. He's going to try to make this about family conflict, she said.
Smear the investigation before it gets traction. Let him, Holt said. Every word he says publicly is a word we can use. He was already typing to his AG contact package incoming within the hour. Subject is going public this afternoon.
Timing is now critical. The response came back in 4 minutes. Received. I'll have a team on it by end of day. He looked at Camille.
You need to be in front of cameras before Spencer, he said. Not to fight him, to get ahead of the narrative. Simple, factual, no emotion. The trust is under review. Proper oversight is being restored.
The family's values are being upheld. She nodded slowly. And you? I'm not in front of cameras, he said. That's not my role.
He paused. My role was to find it. Yours is to fix it publicly. That's how this works. She looked at him for a long moment.