The Right Question
Chapter 05 - The Right Question
Rebecca chose a coffee shop in Rogers Park where no one from Winnetka would accidentally recognize them.
The tables were scarred pine, the espresso machine shrieked every few minutes, and a handwritten sign near the register asked customers not to move the mismatched chairs. Claire took the back table beneath a framed photograph of Lake Michigan in winter.
The cream folder sat between them.
Rebecca looked at Claire’s cheek before she looked at the documents.
“That bruise has entered its villain era.”
“Can we focus?”
“I am focusing. I’m also deciding whether prison orange would flatter Diane.”
Claire slid the public filings across the table.
Rebecca stopped smiling.
For twenty minutes, Claire explained the transfers, Teresa Volkov, Priya Bell, and the Delaware management company. She spoke the way she did in client meetings, dates first, assumptions labeled, gaps left open.
It kept her steady.
Rebecca stirred her coffee without drinking it.
“You’ve built a strong suspicion.”
“Not proof.”
“Good. Keep saying that.”
“The routing trail ends with Diane.”
“It ends with a company contact record. That may be enough for questions, not accusations.”
Claire turned her ring once.
Rebecca tapped the table.
“Three times or none. Half a ritual makes you look twitchy.”
Claire finished the turns.
“You know me too well.”
“That’s why I’m worried.”
A barista dropped a metal pitcher behind the counter. Both women glanced over, then back.
Rebecca lowered her voice.
“If you accuse Diane of fraud and you’re wrong, she’ll say you went hunting for family money after a domestic fight.”
“She hit me.”
“I know.”
“She forged my name.”
“We think she did.”
Claire’s jaw tightened.
Rebecca reached across the table and covered Claire’s wrist.
“I’m not defending her. I’m protecting you from giving her the one version of this story she wants.”
“What version?”
“The poor girl from Rockford married a Hale, found a trust, and started calculating.”
Claire pulled her hand back.
The words hurt because they were already Diane’s.
Rebecca saw it.
“Bad phrasing.”
“Accurate phrasing.”
“No. Accurate fear.”
They sat with that while steam fogged the window beside them.
Claire remembered her mother balancing bills at their kitchen table, licking a thumb before counting twenties into labeled envelopes. Rent. Utilities.
Groceries. School shoes if nothing broke.
Money had never looked glamorous to Claire. It looked like arithmetic done after midnight.
“I don’t want their fortune,” she said.
Rebecca nodded. “I know.”
“I want to know why she put my name on a dead man’s hospital form.”
“Then ask for documents, not money.”
Rebecca turned the folder toward herself and closed the brass clasp.
“Start with the original trust.”
---
Claire returned to her office after lunch and waited until the partner on her floor left for a client meeting.
She drafted a formal records request to Harold Price’s firm. She cited a routine conflict review concerning historical charitable disbursements, used Donnelly rather than Hale in the signature block, and printed it on her firm’s letterhead.
Then she stopped.
Her firm had not authorized the request.
The language was careful, but careful was not the same as clean.
Claire deleted the first version.
She called Rebecca.
“You were about to do something professionally stupid,” Rebecca said.
“How did you know?”
“You only call before three when ethics have become inconvenient.”
Claire explained.
Rebecca was quiet for a few seconds.
“Use your personal name. State that you’re requesting records relevant to an allegation made against you. Don’t imply your firm represents anyone.”
“That may trace back to Marcus.”
“Everything traces back eventually.”
“I need time before Diane knows.”
“Then send it to the records administrator, not Harold.”
Claire rewrote the request.
She used Claire Donnelly, her maiden name, but included her professional designation beneath it. No firm logo. No false authority.
The email asked for historical trust instruments, amendments, and distribution schedules connected to records Diane had placed in Claire’s possession.
She attached only the altered hospital form.
Before pressing send, Claire turned her ring three times.
Then she sent it.
---
At home that evening, Marcus cooked pasta and behaved as if chopping garlic counted as repair.
Claire sat at the kitchen table with Oliver in her lap. The baby slapped both palms against the wood whenever Marcus crossed the room.
“You contacted Harold,” Marcus said.
It was not a question.
Claire looked up.
“How do you know?”
“My mother called.”
“She knows already?”
“She said Harold’s office asked whether she authorized a records release.”
“I didn’t request her authorization.”
“No, you requested family documents under your maiden name.”
His knife struck the cutting board harder.
“I used my maiden name because that’s the name she forged.”
Marcus dropped the garlic into hot oil. It hissed, filling the kitchen with a sharp, warm smell.
“You could have told me.”
“You could have told me she called Friday.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It’s exactly the same, except I’m trying to find the truth.”
Marcus turned down the burner.
“She thinks you’re building a case against her.”
“I am documenting what she did.”
“She’s my mother.”
“I’m your wife.”
Oliver reached for Claire’s water glass.
She moved it away before he could knock it over.
Marcus stared at the pan.
“I’m trying.”
“No. You’re cooking.”
The words landed, and Claire regretted them before his face changed.
He set down the spoon.
“My father died in that house. My mother spent two years keeping him alive and eleven years keeping everything else from falling apart.”
“She may be the reason it’s falling apart.”
Marcus left the kitchen.
The sauce began to burn.
Claire switched off the stove and opened a window. Cold air pushed in, carrying the distant rumble of the elevated train.
Oliver rested his head beneath her chin.
For a few minutes, she stood there with him, smelling scorched garlic and baby lotion.
*Facts first. Hurt later.*
Her phone rang on the table.
Unknown Chicago number.
Claire answered.
“Ms. Donnelly?”
“Yes.”
“This is Harold Price.”
His voice was low, older, and careful.
Claire shifted Oliver to her other hip.
“I expected your records department.”
“They forwarded your request.”
“Will you release the documents?”
“Not through ordinary channels.”
“Why not?”
A pause followed. Claire heard a door close on his end.
When Harold spoke again, his tone had changed.
“I’m calling from my private office. This conversation is off the record.”
Claire looked toward the hallway where Marcus had disappeared.
“All right.”
“I don’t know what you’ve found,” Harold said.
He lowered his voice.
“I’ve been waiting eleven years for someone to ask me the right question.”
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Keep reading Part 6 — because Diane’s search of Claire’s office finds nothing, so she starts investigating Claire’s dead father instead.
👉 Comment "Part 6" if you want the next chapters!
