Chapter Fifty-Five

CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

Lies gather force when the stakes rise.

Everyone fibs—by pretending to remember someone's name, or to get out of a dinner invitation—but those untruths are rooted in a desire to spare another's feelings or avoid an awkward moment. They're white lies. Generally harmless.

Here in DC, lies are as ubiquitous as pollen in the spring air. They're spread to undermine someone in power, or to elevate one's own prospects. Sometimes the lies are debunked. Other times they're so ingrained in the public consciousness they might as well be truth.

The most determined liar of all is someone who is fighting for their life. They'll say anything, pretend to be anyone.

The one thing these different types of lies have in common is the end game: They serve a purpose. They benefit the liar.

None of this holds true for people who lie simply for the thrill of lying.

Which type is Charles? I wonder.

He pours a healthy splash of red into a goblet and passes it to me, then serves himself.

My anger is a hot coal burning in my gut. And yet when I notice how old his hands appear—they're bony, with a few brown spots on the back—my heart contracts with something that still feels like love.

Looking into Charles's eyes is impossible.

How could he look into mine for all of these years?

I don't know how to start this conversation. So, I'm a little shocked when Charles does it for me.

"I know you needed a break last night. But I'm wondering if you're ready to go through any papers together now?" he asks.

I nod and set down my wineglass. I haven't taken a single sip. I want my brain to be crystal clear for this conversation.

I reach into my bag and pull out the slightly crumpled sheets from Detective Garcia.

I set them down on the coffee table in front of Charles and wait while he takes his reading glasses out of his breast pocket and smooths out the papers.

What happens next will be one of the pivot points in my life, a moment when everything changes—just like when I first walked into my aunt's house with a suitcase in my hand, or when Marco turned to me, tears in his eyes, and twisted off his wedding band.

The silence in the room crashes down on me as Charles reads.

Just when I think I can't bear the tension any longer, he lifts his head. If I thought he looked old before, now he has aged a decade in the space of minutes.

All my fury and pain funnel into a single word that explodes out of me like a bullet: "Why?"

"Why was I your mother's lawyer?"

I can't believe he's so calm. But maybe he has always known this conversation would come. He's had years to prepare for it, unlike me.

"The most important thing for you to know is that I love you like a daught—"

I cut him off. "Did you know she was my mother all along?"

He nods and I violently recoil.

"How could you!"

"Please, Stella, let me explain?"

I want to upend the coffee table and run out of his house. But a bigger part of me is desperate for this to be some sort of complicated misunderstanding that Charles will magically put to right with his words.

So I gesture for him to continue.

He inhales deeply. "I became your mother's lawyer the first time she got arrested for public intoxication. Those charges were dropped. We talked about what she'd—what both of you—had been through. I felt for her. I told her to call me whenever she needed help."

It all sounds so honorable. When did it become twisted and deceptive?

"We became friends. And this is something I never told you, but"—he hesitates and squeezes his eyes shut briefly—"I also used back then."

"You used heroin?" It's a staggering confession; Charles has never hinted at this.

"I never shot up, but I smoked it. I've told you I was a different kind of man back then."

"Were you an addict, too?"

He shakes his head. "I got lucky. It didn't grab hold of me that way. Maybe if I'd kept using, I'd have spiraled, but I only did it a dozen or so times."

A dozen or so times. I probably shouldn't be so stunned; people are capable of all kinds of things. Everyone holds a bit of darkness inside. And clearly I never knew Charles as well as I thought.

"Your mom kept telling me she wanted to turn her life around. But then she'd use again. She called me when she was arrested and held in jail overnight." He gestures to the papers and shakes his head. "She was determined to sober up after that."

I can't believe it's Charles who is revealing the details of my mother's last days. That he was with her, privy to her mindset.

My anger and shock are temporarily snuffed out by my yearning to know.

"Were you there the night she—" My voice is hoarse.

He swallows. "She called me. She was feeling the itch badly. Something had happened that reminded her of your dad. So yes, I came over the night she died."

Charles reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief and wipes his eyes.

I should be crying, too, but I can't. I feel completely hollow inside.

"I could see the kind of woman she truly was, Stella. The pain was just too big for her; it was consuming her. I tried to talk her through it that night. And then something happened."

I hold my breath.

"I put my arms around her and she leaned into me. I could feel how much she was yearning for someone to hold her. And the truth is, I was yearning for it just as much. Then I tried to kiss her."

Charles's voice breaks. "She told me no. She said she couldn't be with another man, not given how much she still loved your father."

No… please. I didn't imagine those words I heard from inside the closet. But they didn't mean what I thought; no one was forcing her to do drugs.

Her protest was a tribute to my father. To the family we once had.

"My pride was hurt. My marriage was— Well, that's no excuse. I stood up and apologized and then I left."

I can barely speak. It's almost like I'm seven again, my throat sealing up around the words I desperately need to voice: "What happened after you left?"

Charles drops his head into his hands. Then he lifts it and looks at me with red-rimmed eyes.

"I've thought about this for more hours than I can count. I represented a fair number of addicts back then, and they were incredibly capable when it came to securing a fix. Even those who were determined to give it up. Some of them kept a bit of drugs around almost as a security blanket when they were trying to get clean, so that the giving up wasn't as terrifying. The cops let me into your old apartment a few days after she died. I found a couple of small bags taped to the back of the toilet. I think she must have used one of them when I left that night."

My mother chose the comfort of heroin as her last act. No one made her do it.

I begin to tremble.

Charles's face collapses into grief. "I blame myself. Maybe it tipped her over the edge when I tried to kiss her—but it wasn't just physical, Stella. Your mother's heart was so beautiful, and she was so vulnerable. I imagined we could be together. I thought I could fall in love with her, help her get clean for good. But she never felt that way about me. I think I made her realize she might never feel that way about anyone again. It was too much for her."

Instead of coming to get me in the closet and holding on to me, she chose the embrace of oblivion.

Charles reaches out to touch my hand. I jerk it away.

"There's more you haven't told me. You set me up with that briefcase."

"Stella, I couldn't save your mom. So I began trying to save you."

My head swims. "What do you mean?"

"I didn't know you were in that closet. I was aware your mother had a child, but I guess I assumed she had some childcare arrangement. I didn't even think about you. I can never forgive myself for that. If I'd known you were there… But when I found out, I couldn't stop thinking about you."

His voice is ragged now, his breath coming faster.

"I tried to watch over you as best as I could."

My voice is tinny, as if it's coming from far away. "I don't understand. How did you watch over me?"

Charles's words rush out, as if he has held them inside for so long they're bursting forth from the accumulated pressure.

"I tried to do little things to make your life better. I arranged for you to go to the grief camp—"

"Wait, that was you ? I thought it was a neighbor."

"I told the camp to tell you a neighbor nominated you. I did everything anonymously. But sometimes I'd watch you walk home from school so I could lay eyes on you and make sure you looked okay."

I blink rapidly. "You did everything anonymously? What else did you do?"

Then it clicks. I answer before he can. "Those birthday gifts from my school counselor. You arranged that."

Of course he did. What school counselor would spend so much time and money creating a birthday celebration for one particular student unless she was just the proxy for someone else?

Charles nods. "I've been trying to save you for your whole life, Stella."

I bend forward and rest my forehead on my knees. I'm so dizzy I feel like I'm going to pass out.

"That's why I left an old briefcase in the deli. I figured you'd either take the money—most people would have—or it would give me an excuse to get to know you."

My mind is so overloaded it takes me a minute to process what he's really saying. "You set me up. None of this was real."

"No, no, please don't say that. I only wanted to help you, Stella. And as soon as I got to know you, I grew to love you. I swear it."

I lift my head, but I can't bring myself to look at him, so I stare down at my feet.

"Why didn't you tell me? You had so many opportunities…"

"I couldn't." His voice is ragged. "At first I told myself you were too young, and then, as time built up, it seemed like I'd missed my chance. I pretended it didn't matter how our lives had come together. I told myself you needed me as much as I needed you. I also thought you weren't ready before now to know more about your mother and how she died. Was I wrong?"

I can't answer him. We sit in silence for another few moments. Finally I force myself to look at him. He is intensely familiar yet completely foreign—like my Charles has been replaced by an identical twin with nearly identical DNA but a different soul.

"I know this is a lot for you. But there's more I need to tell you."

I lift my palm to him. My brain feels battered, as if someone has been shaking me and making it bang around in my skull. It can't absorb anything else.

"Stella—"

Before Charles can continue, my phone rings.

I instinctively glance at it on the coffee table and feel my eyes widen. A scream rises in my throat.

This is impossible.

The name caller ID shows flashing on the screen is Tina de la Cruz .