Chapter 1 - the sister everyone trusted
Six days before my daughter was found behind a trash enclosure, Lauren brought me coffee and told me I looked terrible.
It was exactly the kind of insult she could make sound affectionate.
"You look like you've been awake since Tuesday."
"I have a newborn."
"That wasn't a denial."
I smiled despite myself.
Lauren walked into my kitchen without asking and began opening cabinets.
She had always done that.
Our mother used to say Lauren had never entered a room in her life without immediately deciding how it should be organized.
At forty, she was six years older than me and carried herself with the same confident energy she had possessed since childhood.
When we were children, Lauren planned games.
As teenagers, she planned family vacations.
When our father died, Lauren planned the funeral.
When our mother became ill, Lauren organized medication schedules, hospital appointments, insurance documents, meal deliveries, and visiting hours.
And when our mother died eighteen months before Mila was born, Lauren became the person everyone expected to keep the Mercer family from falling apart.
I had never resented her for it.
At least, that was what I told myself.
Lauren set a mug beside me.
"Saturday is going to be crowded."
"I know."
"You can't spend the entire event hiding in the office with Mila."
"I'm not planning to."
"You say that now."
I looked down at my daughter sleeping against my chest.
Mila's tiny mouth moved as though she were dreaming about feeding.
The Mercer Foundation's annual charity event was scheduled for Saturday afternoon at Mercer House, the converted nineteenth century estate our family had used for foundation events for almost thirty years.
It was the first major fundraiser since our mother's death.
It was also my first public event since becoming executive director.
Lauren was chair of community outreach.
On paper, we were equals in many ways.
In reality, everyone assumed Lauren was the one in charge.
That had never bothered me until recently.
Three months earlier, I had noticed a discrepancy in the foundation's financial reports.
It was small.
Then I found another.
Then another.
Consulting fees.
Vendor reimbursements.
Emergency maintenance expenses.
Each individual amount was easy to explain.
Together they added up to almost two hundred and eighty thousand dollars over two years.
I had asked Grant Vale, the foundation's financial director, for supporting records.
Grant had provided some.
Not all.
When I asked again, Lauren accused me of becoming paranoid.
"Mom trusted Grant for twelve years."
"Mom also reviewed everything herself."
"She was obsessive."
"She was careful."
Lauren had laughed.
"Claire, you have a six week old baby. Maybe don't start a forensic accounting war while you're sleeping three hours a night."
I had not told her that I had already contacted an independent auditor.
The audit was scheduled to begin the Monday after the charity event.
Only four people knew.
Me.
The auditor.
Our attorney.
And Helen Shaw.
Helen knew because I had asked her not to allow anyone into my mother's old office over the weekend.
That office contained three boxes of archived invoices I wanted preserved.
Helen had cleaned Mercer House for twenty seven years.
She had known me since I was seven.
She knew which doors stuck in winter.
Which windows leaked.
Which family members left wineglasses on antique tables.
Which donors were kind to staff when nobody important was watching.
Helen noticed things.
Lauren never seemed to notice Helen.
That would become important later.
At the time, I simply nodded when Lauren suggested she take responsibility for Mila during the busiest part of the event.
"I can keep an eye on her."
"I'll have the portable bassinet in the family room."
"And when you have to give your speech?"
"Aunt Diane can sit with her."
Lauren waved her hand.
"Diane will be drunk on sparkling wine by two."
"She doesn't drink."
"You know what I mean."
I did.
Lauren sat across from me.
"Let me help."
There was something unusually soft in her expression.
For a moment she was not the powerful foundation chair.
She was my sister.
The girl who had slept beside me on the floor during thunderstorms when we were children.
The teenager who punched a boy at school after he mocked my braces.
The woman who stayed beside me all night when Mila's father, Aaron, died in a highway accident seven months into my pregnancy.
That was why I trusted her.
Grief creates strange blind spots.
After Aaron died, Lauren became indispensable.
She drove me to appointments.
She assembled the crib.
She answered family phone calls when I could not.
She stood beside me during labor until Mila was born.
When the nurse placed my daughter on my chest, Lauren cried harder than I did.
Or at least I thought she had.
I touched Mila's soft hair.
"Fine."
Lauren smiled.
"Fine what?"
"You can help Saturday."
"Good."
She reached across the table and squeezed my hand.
"You need family right now."
I believed her.
Then her phone lit up on the counter.
She reached for it immediately.
I saw only two words before she turned the screen over.
Grant Vale.
Lauren noticed me looking.
"Foundation nonsense."
"What kind?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
That sentence bothered me.
Not because of what she said.
Because it sounded exactly like something our mother used to hate.
Mom believed that anyone telling you not to worry about money was usually asking you not to look at it.
Lauren stood.
"I need to go."
"Everything okay?"
"Perfect."
She kissed the top of Mila's head.
Then she paused.
"By the way, what time are you giving your speech Saturday?"
"Two five."
"Exactly?"
I frowned.
"Approximately."
"The event schedule says two five."
"Then probably two five."
Lauren smiled.
"Good."
She left.
I sat at the table after the door closed, staring at the coffee she had brought me.
I remember almost calling her back.
There had been something odd about the question.
Something too precise.
But Mila woke.
She began crying.
And within seconds, my sister's question disappeared beneath the thousand ordinary demands of caring for a newborn.
May you like
Six days later, I would see 2:05 written on a folded piece of paper hidden beneath my daughter's blanket.
And I would remember that conversation word for word.
