“I have to see him. I can’t take it anymore.”
“Well, take it, or all three of us go down.”
It was music to my ears. But it wasn’t enough. I needed the final blow. And for that, I needed a public stage. A stage where William’s mask would crumble for good in front of his entire world.
I remembered his casual comment from weeks ago about a family event in Charleston. Their family, originally from the South, hosted a major charity gala every spring, a significant social event for them where William always showed off his perfect family. An idea began to form in my mind. Perverse. Perfect.
The next day, I went to see Valerie. This time, not at the home. I had spoken with Sister Catherine and, after many assurances, had gotten permission to take her to a real auto-mechanic shop run by a retired, trusted friend of my father’s who agreed to open it for us on a Saturday morning. Valerie was almost unrecognizable. She wore a blue jumpsuit that was too big for her, but her eyes shone with contained excitement. The old mechanic, Manuel, a gruff but golden-hearted man, showed her the tools, the disassembled engines.
“Look, kid, this is a crankshaft. If this cracks, goodbye engine.”
“And how do you know if it’s cracked?” Valerie asked, touching the metal part with reverence.
“Good eyes and a better ear. But mostly experience.”
I stood on the sidelines watching. Valerie asked precise technical questions. Manuel, at first skeptical, soon surrendered to her obvious passion and knowledge.
“Kid, where’d you come from? You know more than some of the apprentices I’ve had.”
She smiled, a real, carefree smile that lit up her whole face. It was the first time I had seen her smile like that. My heart lurched.
Leaving the shop, her hands stained with grease but her face radiant, Valerie walked beside me in silence. Suddenly, she said,
“You’re not like the other rich adults who sometimes come to the home. They just want to take pictures to feel good about themselves. You do things.”
“What kind of things?”
“Real things. Like bringing me here. Or listening to me talk about engines without yawning.”
She looked at me.
“Why?”
The question was inevitable. I took a deep breath.
“Because I owe you eight years, Valerie. Eight years of mechanics workshops, of helping you with homework, of patching up your knees when you fell. I can’t get that time back. But I can try, from now on, to do things right, even if it’s just being the person who gets you into a workshop or buys you the books you need.”
She nodded, looking ahead.
“My friend Laura from school, the one Ethan bothered, she says her dad before he left would sometimes buy her candy to apologize for being late. She says the candy didn’t fix anything, but at least it was a gesture.”
“And is this candy?” I asked, gesturing to the workshop.
She thought about it.
“No. This… this is a wrench. It’s for tightening bolts and for loosening them.”
She looked at me again, and in her eyes I saw a flicker of complicity.
“It’s more useful.”
I almost burst into tears right there in the middle of the street. Instead, I just nodded.
“Yes. It’s more useful.”
Back at the home, before we said goodbye, she turned to me.
“Hey. That big party Sister Catherine was talking about the other day, the one for rich people in Charleston. Are you going?”
“The charity gala? Yes. I have to go. It’s part of a job I have to finish.”
“A job? Against them?”
She asked it with an insight that took my breath away.
“Yes. Against them.”
She nodded seriously.
“Well. Hope it goes well. And be careful.”
It was advice. Almost a show of concern.
“I will be,” I whispered. “Thank you, Valerie.”
That night, I set the final phase in motion. I called Frank.
“I need everything ready for the Hayes Family Foundation Gala in Charleston next Friday. Projection. Sound. All discreet but impeccable. And I need someone on the inside, on the catering staff, who can handle the projection system at the right moment.”
“That’s very specific, Charlotte. And risky.”
“I’ll pay for it as if it were gold. And I need a copy of the entire dossier, with the juiciest audio recordings, the hospital documents, the photos, ready to be delivered to the press in Charleston and New York at a precise time. Friday at nine p.m. sharp.”
Frank whistled.
“You’re putting on a show.”
I hung up. Then I called my lawyer.
“Prepare the papers to file for permanent and exclusive custody of Ethan and to begin adoption proceedings for Valerie. I want them ready to file the Monday after the gala.”
“Charlotte, with William’s confession and the evidence, custody of the boy is almost certain. But adopting the girl—it’s complicated. The system—”
“I know. And I’ll pay whatever it takes. I’ll hire the best specialists, but I want the papers ready. It’s a statement of intent. For me and for her.”
As I was hanging up, I heard a noise in the hallway. Ethan was there in his pajamas, listening. How much had he heard? His face was a mask of confusion and fear.
“Adoption?” he asked in a trembling voice. “You’re going to—to bring that girl here? That psycho?”
