“Did you try to transfer the twenty-seven thousand?”
Her silence answered.
My chest ached.
“So yes.”
“I thought you’d agreed!”
“You walked into my hospital room demanding my card.”
“Because she said you’d changed your mind!”
“Then you attacked me.”
Brielle covered her face.
“I know.”
Her voice cracked.
“I know.”
The police officer read Diane her rights.
I watched my mother—the woman who packed my lunches, braided my hair, yelled at me about grades, and sat in the front row at my wedding—put her hands behind her back.
I thought it should feel satisfying.
It didn’t.
It felt like becoming an orphan at thirty-two.
Again.
As the officer escorted her toward the door, Diane turned.
“Natalie.”
I couldn’t answer.
“I did love you.”
My throat tightened.
“You don’t get to use that word right now.”
Her face collapsed.
Then she was gone.
