Chapter 7 - SAMANTHA HAYES TELLS THE PART BRENDAN LEFT OUT
Samantha came to me two days after Chloe’s funeral.
I almost refused to see her.
Then she sent Raymond three emails, two calendar records, and a resignation letter.
So I agreed.
Not at the estate.
I had left.
Chloe’s urn came with me.
I moved into my father’s old house in Evanston.
Smaller.
Quiet.
Mine through the Bennett trust.
Brendan remained at the Fairchild estate because I had no interest in sleeping under the same roof as him.
Samantha arrived at eleven.
No dramatic red dress.
No perfume cloud.
Gray pants.
Black sweater.
Her hair tied back.
She looked exhausted.
Good.
“Nora.”
“Do not apologize for Chloe before you tell me the truth about Brendan.”
She nodded.
Fair.
“Were you sleeping with my husband?”
“Yes.”
No hesitation.
“How long?”
“Nine months.”
I looked out the window.
Chloe had been in and out of the hospital for almost all nine.
“Did you know about her condition?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know how serious it was?”
“Not really.”
“How?”
Samantha swallowed.
“Because Brendan minimized it.”
There it was again.
“What did he tell you?”
“That Chloe had a chronic heart condition but Nora…”
She stopped.
“But Nora what?”
“Panicked.”
I almost smiled.
The word had traveled farther than I knew.
“He said hospitalizations were common.”
“They were.”
“And that you treated every change like the last one.”
“Sometimes it nearly was.”
“I know that now.”
I hated her.
I also believed her.
“Why did you send him the medical message?”
“Because I read the cardiologist’s wording.”
“And?”
“My mother died from cardiomyopathy.”
That surprised me.
“I recognized enough to know it wasn’t routine.”
“Did you tell Brendan to call me?”
“Yes.”
“More than once?”
“Yes.”
She placed her phone on the table.
Messages.
Day four.
I had already seen one.
Day five:
This looks serious. Call Nora.
Brendan:
Ximena says finance is handling it.
Samantha:
Finance cannot tell you if your kid is crashing.
No response.
Day six:
Did you call home?
Brendan:
Nora will keep me on the phone for an hour and I have lenders here.
Samantha:
Then give her an hour.
No response.
My throat tightened.
Samantha’s eyes filled.
“I should have walked away right then.”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why?”
She laughed bitterly.
“Because I had spent nine months believing the version of him that existed with me.”
Successful.
Present.
Attentive.
Available.
Everything he had stopped being at home.
“Did you love him?”
“I thought I did.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t know.”
At least she did not turn herself into a saint.
“Did you know about the reserve transfers?”
“Not at first.”
“When?”
“Four months ago.”
“Why didn’t you report them?”
“I did.”
My eyes narrowed.
“To whom?”
“The audit committee chair.”
That was unexpected.
She gave Raymond the email.
Four months earlier, Samantha had raised concerns that Fairchild’s acquisition facility appeared to be receiving money indirectly from benefit-related entities.
The audit chair asked Charles.
Charles responded that all transfers were authorized intercompany loans expected to reverse after refinancing.
The matter was marked for post-closing review.
Delay again.
“What did you do?”
“I pushed Brendan.”
“What did he say?”
“He said his father had always handled benefits.”
“Did you tell him the reserve might be short?”
“Yes.”
I stopped.
“He knew?”
“Not the number.”
“But he knew there might be a problem.”
“Yes.”
The betrayal shifted.
Brendan had not known twenty-nine million was missing.
He knew enough to ask.
He chose not to.
“Why was he so desperate for Nebraska?”
Samantha looked toward the table.
“Because the company was more fragile than the family admitted.”
The acquisition itself was not the rescue.
The refinancing attached to it was.
If it closed, Fairchild would have enough liquidity to cure the pension and medical deficits.
If it failed, lenders could force asset sales.
Thousands of jobs.
A genuine crisis.
“I believed closing Nebraska fixed everything,” Samantha said.
“And Brendan?”
“Yes.”
“So you two convinced yourselves his family could wait.”
Her eyes filled.
“Yes.”
“While you slept together.”
“Yes.”
The word sat there.
Ugly.
Complete.
Then she gave me a photograph.
Not of Brendan.
Not of them together.
Chloe.
She sat at my kitchen table nine months earlier wearing a yellow paper crown.
I remembered that day.
Brendan’s company picnic.
Chloe had lasted forty minutes before becoming tired.
Samantha was in the background kneeling beside her.
“What is this?”
“She gave me something.”
Samantha reached into her bag.
A child’s bracelet.
Pink beads.
Plastic heart.
My daughter had made hundreds.
The heart had one crooked silver sticker.
My chest broke open.
“She told me yellow was my color.”
I could barely breathe.
“She met you.”
“Once.”
“Did Brendan introduce you?”
“As a coworker.”
Of course.
Samantha placed the bracelet on the table.
“I didn’t know then.”
“Know what?”
“That I would become someone helping her father leave her mother alone in a hospital.”
She started crying.
I did not comfort her.
She did not ask me to.
“What do you want from me?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why come?”
“Because the company is going to blame Ximena and Claire.”
That got my attention.
“Why?”
“Ximena processed the queue.”
“Claire created the hold.”
“Both true.”
“But Brendan’s executive office had override authority.”
“Also true.”
“Charles moved the money.”
“Yes.”
Samantha leaned forward.
“They’re preparing a narrative where the operational failure happened below senior leadership.”
My anger became cold again.
“Who is they?”
“Brendan’s crisis advisers.”
“Does Brendan know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Find out.”
She looked surprised.
“I resigned.”
“Then you know where the emails are.”
Samantha nodded slowly.
I continued.
“Send everything to the independent audit.”
“No private deal.”
“No protecting Brendan because you loved him.”
Her face tightened.
“I won’t.”
“Good.”
She stood.
Then stopped.
“One more thing.”
Of course.
“The day Chloe died, Brendan wasn’t at lunch when he approved the medication.”
I frowned.
“He told me he was.”
“He was at the refinancing signing rehearsal.”
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“What happened?”
“His phone kept vibrating.”
“I told him to answer.”
“He said if it was Nora, Ximena would handle it.”
Samantha closed her eyes.
“Then I saw Chloe’s name on one preview.”
My entire body went cold.
“What preview?”
“URGENT DEPENDENT EXCEPTION — CHLOE FAIRCHILD.”
Silence.
“He knew it was Chloe.”
Samantha nodded.
“At 4:41.”
“He opened it.”
“Approved it.”
“Then put the phone face down.”
My throat closed.
“And still didn’t call.”
“No.”
“Why?”
Samantha whispered:
“He said, ‘If I call now, I’ll lose the rest of the afternoon.’”
I could not breathe.
There it was.
Not ignorance.
Not a system.
A choice.
One minute before the approval.
Fifty-five minutes before Chloe died.
May you like
Brendan had seen his daughter’s name—
and decided my voice would cost too much time.
