Lahat ng Kabanata ng Seducing My Brother-in-Law: Kabanata 11 - Kabanata 20

Michael sent a photographer to my mother’s building in Brooklyn.I am still holding the phone when Samuel takes it from my hand, reads the text I sent my mother, and starts pulling on his jacket.“We go to Brooklyn,” he says.“No.” I take the phone back. “You go to the Times. I go to Brooklyn.”“Khloe”“Samuel.” I look at him directly. “Michael wants a reaction. He wants a photograph of us together outside my mother’s building. Give him that and tomorrow’s press conference writes itself.” I pick up my bag. “You call the Times. I handle my mother. We meet back here at nine.”He holds my gaze for three seconds.“Nine o’clock,” he says.I leave.The cab to Brooklyn takes twenty-two minutes. I spend them texting Patricia, who responds with the controlled fury of a lawyer whose case is being personally attacked and wants to file four additional motions before morning.I tell her to hold.She does not like that.My mother is standing at her apartment window when my cab pulls up. I see her b

Gerald Thomas knew.He knew about Samuel and me before he died. He recorded his response. He left three recordings total, each one placed like a chess piece, each one timed to land at a specific moment in a sequence he designed from a hospital bed while his family moved around him, believing he was dying.He was not simply dying.He was managing.I stand on the sidewalk and look at Samuel and say, “Gerald knew about us.”Samuel does not react with surprise.I registered for that.“When did you find out?” I ask.“Four days ago,” he says. “Elena flagged it. Gerald’s personal lawyer informed her that the third recording existed.” He meets my eyes. “I was going to tell you.”“When?”“After the Times story. After the settlement. After the immediate fires were out.” He holds my gaze. “I did not want it to change what you decided about us.”I look at him for a long moment.Two weeks ago, I would have called that a lie dressed as protection. Today, I understand it as a man who was frightened

Matthew Cross is not at Langham.I know because Samuel called the front desk from the cab, and the desk clerk said Mr. Cross checked out at seven this morning. One hour before, we sat in Arthur Mead’s office listening to Gerald’s voice. One hour before the settlement closed.He was already gone.“He knew,” Samuel says.“He always knew,” I say. “The question is what he knew and when.”I called his number. It goes to voicemail. I do not leave a message. I text instead.I know about the transfer. I know about the leverage note. Call me.We ride in silence for a block.My phone rings.Matthew.“Where are you?” I ask.“JFK,” he says. “My flight boards in forty minutes.”“You are running.”“I am leaving,” he says. “There is a difference.”“Matthew.” I keep my voice flat. “Divine paid you three times market rate with a transfer note that says leverage. You handed me the flash drive. You went on record with the Times. You burned your own cover and your contract.” I pause. “I need to understan

My mother cooks from seven in the morning.I know this because she calls me at seven fifteen to ask if Samuel has any dietary restrictions. I tell her no. She says goodbye and hangs up. Twelve minutes later she calls back to ask if he likes plantain. I tell her I assume so. She says she will make extra.Samuel arrives at my Clinton Hill apartment at eleven.I moved in four days ago. The apartment is small and real and entirely mine. No Thomas art on the walls. No carefully curated furniture. A bed I chose, a couch I chose, a kitchen table with two chairs because two is the right number for the life I am building.Samuel knocks. I open the door.He looks at the apartment over my shoulder. He takes it in without comment. Then he looks at me.“Good,” he says.We took the subway to my mother’s.She lives in Flatbush in the same apartment she has rented for twenty-three years. The building is clean and loud and smells like every family in it is cooking on Sunday. We went up two flights of

The gallery opens on a Thursday evening.Samuel’s show is called Chosen. Twelve pieces. Ten smaller works from the Paris years and two large canvases from the last four months. The corner canvas is the centerpiece. The gallery hangs it on the main wall, lit directly, the first thing you see when you walk through the door.I arrive at six thirty.The gallery is already filling. Chelsea on a Thursday evening, the kind of crowd that knows art and knows people who know art and moves through both worlds with practiced ease. I do not know most of them. I know enough.Adaeze is there. She texted me at five to say she was coming, and I did not have to tell her the details of the show because she had already read the press release the gallery sent out.Patricia is there. She is standing near the bar with her husband, holding a glass of wine and wearing an expression that says she is genuinely pleased to be somewhere other than a courtroom.My mother is there.This surprises me. Samuel invited