His mother stood in the lobby.
Alone.
No sunglasses. No expensive coat. No controlled smile.
She looked older than she had three days earlier.
“Don’t let her in,” Maya said.
David nodded.
He pressed the intercom.
“You cannot come upstairs.”
Eleanor looked directly into the lobby camera.
“I need five minutes.”
“No.”
“David, please.”
He had heard his mother angry, proud, wounded, and persuasive.
He had almost never heard her say please.
Maya stood slowly.
“You don’t owe her a conversation,” she said.
“I know.”
“Do you want one?”
David looked at the monitor.
Part of him wanted to shut off the screen.
Another part—the boy who had spent years trying to earn his mother’s approval—wanted answers.
“I want to hear what she says,” he admitted.
Maya considered this.
“Not here.”
David understood.
The apartment had to remain safe.
He went downstairs alone, carrying his phone with the recorder running.
Eleanor waited near the entrance.
She had brought no luggage.
“Where are Chloe and Mark?” David asked.
“At their apartment.”
“And Ethan?”
“With his father.”
“Good.”
Eleanor’s gaze moved toward the elevator.
“How is the baby?”
“Safe.”
“And Maya?”
“Recovering.”
His mother closed her eyes briefly.
“I didn’t know she was that sick.”
“She told you.”
“She said she was sore.”
“She was bleeding.”
“I thought she was exaggerating.”
“Why?”
Eleanor’s face tightened.
“Because she often seemed fragile.”
“No. Because you needed her to be unreliable.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Neither was leaving her without food.”
Eleanor looked down.
“I made a terrible mistake.”
It was the first time she had admitted anything plainly.
David felt no relief.
“Why did you pay Hudson Family Consulting?”
Her head lifted sharply.
For one second, fear crossed her face.
Then it vanished.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I came here to apologize.”
“No. You came because you know the police are reviewing the accounts.”
Eleanor’s lips pressed together.
David stepped closer.
“Who is Jonathan Reeves?”
“You’ve been speaking to Daniel.”
“Answer me.”
“He helped me with financial matters.”
“What kind of matters?”
“Your father left complications.”
“What complications?”
People passed behind the glass doors, carrying grocery bags and pushing strollers. The ordinary neighborhood scene made their conversation feel even more unreal.
Eleanor looked at her son.
“Thomas made promises he could not keep.”
“To Marisol?”
Her composure cracked.
