Chapter 44 - THE TESTIMONY IN THE SMALL ROOM
Evelyn Sloane's formal statement was delivered to investigators in a conference room far less dramatic than the stories people had been telling about her. She had arrived with her attorney and several boxes of documents. I wasn't present. What I learned later came from information lawfully shared with the center's counsel and from the limited public filings. Evelyn described how invoices had been prepared, which meetings she'd attended, and where she believed original records might still exist. Some of her recollections were supported by emails. Others needed corroboration.
Her statement linked Daniel Reese to parts of the Blue Lantern property strategy, but it did not establish that he had ordered Aaron Vale to steal a file. She also acknowledged that she'd approved language she now considered misleading. Her lawyer explained that she was cooperating with authorities while addressing her own potential exposure. I was glad she had come forward, but I didn't turn her into a heroine. People could help tell the truth without escaping responsibility for what they'd done.
Tessa invited me to the center for an update meeting. Maya Chen had taken over many of my former tasks and was doing well. She had created a new volunteer orientation sheet with a column identifying who could answer each type of question. I felt proud and a little wistful. The center no longer needed me to be present for every decision. That was a sign of health.
Evelyn's statement made me remember the afternoon she had stood outside the family center with her blue umbrella. At the time I'd been irritated that she wanted to speak to me privately, as though my injuries made me responsible for hearing every secret connected to Michael. Now I wondered whether she'd been frightened of telling the truth through official channels. The possibility made me more sympathetic without changing the fact that her approach had been inappropriate.
I mentioned the thought to my counselor. She asked whether I was trying to make myself responsible for Evelyn's decision to cooperate. I admitted that I was. She reminded me that people often carried a mixture of regret, fear, self-protection, and genuine concern. I could wish Evelyn well while allowing professionals to assess what she'd said and whether her actions had harmed others.
After the session I went to a small neighborhood museum that had opened an exhibition about local volunteer organizations. One display showed a faded photograph of women preparing meals during a winter storm. The caption named several volunteers but admitted that others remained unidentified. A notebook beside the exhibit invited visitors to provide verifiable information or suggest corrections.
I stood there longer than I'd expected. So much history was made by people whose work had never appeared in official records. Their names survived only if someone remembered to write them down. I thought of Mrs. Carter in the mansion, of cleaners and drivers whose labor had kept a wealthy household operating while powerful people made decisions in other rooms. I thought of staff at the center who answered calls and kept attendance sheets without ever appearing in a newspaper.
A museum volunteer approached and asked whether I had a question. I asked how they handled memories that conflicted. She explained that they recorded each account with its source and did not erase one person's recollection simply because another disagreed. Where records supported a correction, they updated the display. Where uncertainty remained, they said so.
"People sometimes dislike that," she told me. "They want one version that feels final."
"I understand the temptation."
We talked about the difference between honoring people and pretending their lives had no contradictions. She showed me an exhibition label that had been revised three times after descendants provided new documents. The changes were listed in a small note, not hidden. I left thinking about how much stronger a story could become when it had room to be corrected.
That evening I stopped at the mansion and found Teresa in the conservatory. She was sorting photographs for Lily, carefully separating those she knew the dates of from those she didn't. I told her about the museum. She smiled and admitted that family albums often contained confident captions written by people who had guessed.
"Your grandfather insisted one picture was from 1978," she told Luca when he joined us. "It was taken at a wedding that happened in 1982. He never admitted the mistake."
Luca laughed. We examined the photographs together, identifying a few places and leaving others uncertain. Lily arrived and asked why we couldn't just make up the missing names. Teresa explained that imagining a story was wonderful in art, but that a real person's history deserved care. Lily nodded and took a blank label to write UNKNOWN FOR NOW.
I looked at those words and felt a strange peace. Evelyn had spoken. The cases were moving. Not everything would become clear immediately, and nobody had to invent the missing parts to make the history worth preserving.
Before leaving the museum, I found a small comment card near the exit. It asked visitors whether a missing name in a photograph should be replaced with a best guess or left unknown. I chose UNKNOWN and wrote a note explaining that an invitation for more evidence would be more respectful than a confident mistake. The volunteer thanked me and placed the card in a box with other responses.
Outside, the afternoon sun warmed the pavement. I bought a bottle of water and sat on a bench beside a woman reading a newspaper. She looked up and recognized me from the old mansion story. For a moment I braced myself. Then she simply said, "I hope you're doing well." I thanked her. She returned to her paper.
The exchange lasted less than ten seconds. It left me strangely emotional. For so long I had feared that recognition meant interrogation. Here was someone who had seen my face in the news and did not claim the right to hear the rest of my life. I wanted to remember that encounter as carefully as I remembered the cruel ones.
When I reached home I called Mom and told her about the museum. She wanted to know whether they had an exhibit about neighborhood sewing clubs. I said not yet. She immediately began planning to collect photographs and memories from her group, provided everyone agreed. I laughed at her enthusiasm, then offered to help design a simple consent form. She told me not to turn it into homework. I promised to keep it short.
Later I watched her begin sorting old pictures, setting aside those whose dates she couldn't confirm. The uncertainty didn't diminish her affection for the people in them. It made her more careful with their stories. I thought of Evelyn and the family records, and I understood why truth sometimes needed quiet habits more than dramatic revelations.
During the meeting Naomi asked whether the stolen folder incident was finally close to resolution. The investigators had established Aaron's unauthorized entry and identified financial links worth examining, but they had not yet announced who removed the folder. Tessa explained the status and promised further updates when facts could be responsibly shared. Naomi looked disappointed, then said she'd rather hear a limited truth than another assurance that turned out to be wrong.
Afterward I went to the library where Mom was volunteering. She was helping a group of children choose books for summer reading. A little girl insisted on taking home a huge encyclopedia because it had a picture of a horse on the cover. Mom negotiated with her about weight, borrowed a rolling bag, and declared the matter settled. I laughed until the librarian shushed us.
Mom asked whether I was worried about the inquiry. I said yes, though less than before. She reminded me that some questions took years to answer and some never received the tidy ending people wanted. She had lived through hardship without a courtroom or a headline, and her perspective steadied me.
That evening Luca told me Michael's legal team had requested further negotiations concerning the civil claims. Luca's attorneys would handle them under the independent committee's oversight. He looked sad. I asked whether he wanted to talk about his brother as a person, not a defendant. He did. He described a childhood summer when Michael had spent three days building a raft out of broken garden furniture, only to discover it sank immediately. They had laughed until their father found out.
"I miss that version of him," Luca said.
"You can miss him and still refuse to cover for what he did."
May you like
He nodded. We sat on the balcony listening to the city. I thought of Teresa and her fracture, Lily and her school projects, the people at the center working through imperfect plans. The family wasn't healed by one statement or one legal filing. It was learning to live with difficult facts without letting them erase every good memory.
Before bed I opened the notebook Tessa had given me. On the first page I wrote: SOMETIMES A TRUE STORY HAS MORE THAN ONE PERSON WHO NEEDS TO SPEAK. I left the rest blank. I was no longer afraid of pages that didn't have answers yet.
