Chapter 9 - TWELVE WITNESSES
The day after my birthday, I could remember every face at the party. Twelve guests. Twelve people who had seen the frame hit the stone. Not one had bent to help me pick up the picture.
I called each one. Seven didn't answer. Three said they couldn't remember what happened. One told me I ought to forgive Jessica because family holidays were already difficult enough.
The last call went to Nina Brooks, a young neighbor who had brought her mother to the party.
“I wanted to speak up,” Nina said, “but Jessica said she'd tell my landlord I was causing problems.”
“Did you see her push the frame?”
“Yes. I also heard her tell Grant, right before the cake, that she'd give him his footage.”
My mouth went dry. “Her footage?”
“I thought she meant the party video.”
Nina offered a recording from her phone. It showed Grant waiting near the gate and Jessica checking that his camera was on. Then she glanced toward me, elbowed the frame, and stepped back before it fell.
I forwarded the file to Priya.
“Do not contact those two again,” she warned. “Let me handle the evidence.”
That afternoon I took the broken photograph to a conservator downtown. His name was Arthur Bell, and he worked beneath gentle lights with hands that barely shook.
“The paper can be flattened,” he said. “The image won't be perfect.”
“I don't need perfect. I need my mother.”
He smiled. Then he turned the photograph over. Frank had written a date on the back and tucked a narrow strip of paper beneath the mounting board.
It was a receipt from the sale of my mother's lot. In Frank's handwriting: OUR MONEY HELPED BUY THAT HOUSE. DON'T EVER CALL IT A GIFT JUST TO KEEP THE PEACE.
I laughed once, and the laugh became a sob.
As Arthur gave me a tissue, my phone rang. Priya's office.
“The judge has granted us a hearing,” her assistant said. “But Jessica has filed something of her own. She's claiming you're mentally unfit to manage your finances.”
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