Free Fortune's Deadly Descent by Audrey Braun

entwined histories, then the awareness that the bond had just vanished, irretrievably.
    Oliver taps his pen on the table and gazes out the windows.
    “What are you thinking?” I ask.
    “You have every right to hate her, Mom. But I’m wondering… I mean, do you think she was a good mother to Benny? Before everything happened?”
    “Oliver, please.”
    “I know this sounds messed up, but don’t you wonder whether what she did back then was for Benny’s sake?”
    “She tried to kill me, Oliver.”
    He touches my hand. “It’s unforgivable. I’m not excusing anything. I just wonder what her motivation was from the start. Mostly, I guess, I’m wondering how much influence Dad had over her.”
    “Well,” I say, my blood beginning to cool. “I suppose you’re right to ask. In fact, it’s why her sentence was shorter than it should’ve been for attempted murder. Her lawyer proved your father had
undue influenc
e over her.”
    The mention of his father seems to kill our desire to go on talking. We finish our coffee to the sounds of tableware being cleared away.
    Before we get back in the Rover and onto the Autoroute, I withdraw ten thousand euros in cash from my bank’s branch in Dijon. If Interpol or anyone else is following me, I won’t make it easier by leaving a credit card trail.
    It’s late morning, and we’re just outside of Saint-Corbenay. The sky expands like the swath of a paintbrush, periwinkle, so deep it sends a purplish hue onto the silvery bark of plane trees. The place seems enchanted, as if a warm sedative were infused into the air.
    My phone rings between the seats. Benicio has called repeatedly between last night and this morning. Each time, Oliver eyes the buzzing phone, then me. Again, I ignore it, and again I silently refuse to engage Oliver in conversation about Benicio.
    Half a year, I think, Benicio and Emily were texting—or longer if he’s fudging that too. There’s no way they didn’t see each other in LA.
    No one is above
anything
if the circumstances are ripe. I know this, of course—I know it but let myself forget. I’m my own best example. I’ve done atrocious things to other human beings when I had to. Likewise, atrocious things have been done to me. I can’tescape the fact that they happened, in part, because I’d stopped paying attention to my life. I’d been turning a deaf ear to Jonathon’s lies for years by the time all hell broke loose. And now, for all I know, this same complacency was the essential ingredient in Benny’s abduction.
    The phone stops ringing. A moment later, it starts again.
    Oliver sighs, deep and loud. “What if it’s about Benny?”
    “I’ll know,” I tell him. “Trust me.”
    Oliver shakes his head, as if to say,
Isn’t that wishful thinking?
    Twenty minutes later a light rain has returned and the hypnotic thump of wipers replaces the ringing phone. Outside, vineyards, valleys, hardwoods soaked to the roots. Another castle looking haunted in the rain.
    “Have I been a bad mother?” I ask.
    “The worst.”
    “Oliver—”
    “Of course not. Don’t talk like that.”
    “I feel like I’ve never been able to give enough attention to either one of you. I never made you my
everything
, the way other mothers seem to do. I’ve always had…other goals, my work—”
    “That’s sounding pretty retro,” he says.
    “It’s a struggle, believe me. Each part of you wants the upper hand, and you end up feeling like you’re lousy at both. Especially when things go to shit. Pardon my French.”
    Oliver gives me this beautifully adult smile, and says, “Mom, listen to me. Benny knows how much you love him. He
knows
. It’s just not an issue.”
    A sudden convulsion of tears grips me. I cup my mouth, and the feeling disappears surprisingly quickly.
    “You’re a
great
mother,” Oliver says, touching my arm. “And I’m not just saying that. You should hear the stories I’ve heardfrom friends about
their
mothers. No, you shouldn’t.