Chapter 6 - THE REPAIR THEY DIDN’T MAKE.
The repair company sent nothing to Bridget.
Not at first.
The receptionist became formal the moment Bridget asked for documents.
“You’ll need to have your attorney request records.”
“I don’t have an attorney.”
“Then I’m sorry.”
“Can you at least tell me when you came to the house?”
“I really can’t.”
“But you just said the railing wasn’t supposed to be used.”
Another pause.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
The call ended.
Bridget lay in her hospital bed with the phone against her chest.
Five days had passed since the fall.
She could move two toes on her right foot now.
The first time it happened, the physical therapist smiled.
Bridget cried.
Not because two toes were a miracle.
Because for five days every adult around her had been explaining what could go wrong.
Two moving toes were something her body did without asking her father’s permission.
She needed that.
That afternoon, her brother finally came to see her alone.
He stood in the doorway carrying flowers.
Cheap grocery-store flowers.
Bridget almost laughed.
Her brother had never purchased inexpensive flowers in his life.
“They were downstairs,” he said.
“You didn’t know what to buy.”
“No.”
“Those are fine.”
He set them on the windowsill.
For a while neither of them spoke.
Then Bridget asked, “Why did you delete the video?”
His shoulders dropped.
“I panicked.”
“What were you afraid it showed?”
“I didn’t know.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You were on the ground. Dad was yelling. People were filming. I just—”
“You went inside and deleted security footage.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t check whether I was alive first.”
His face changed.
“That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
“I saw people around you.”
“So?”
“I thought help was coming.”
“You thought deleting footage was more urgent.”
He sat down.
“I knew Dad would lose his mind if video got out.”
Bridget stared at him.
There.
A motive.
Not proof of a larger plan.
But an explanation for the deletion.
Family reputation.
Her father’s anger.
The instinct to control what outsiders saw.
“Did Dad tell you to delete it?”
“No.”
“Did he know you were doing it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you push me?”
His head snapped up.
“No.”
“Did you touch me?”
“No.”
“Were you on the balcony?”
He looked away.
Bridget waited.
“Yes.”
The room went quiet.
“You told me you were in the study.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew how it looked.”
“What happened?”
“You were near the railing.”
“You were behind me?”
“Off to the side.”
“Were we arguing?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“Yes.”
“About what?”
“Nothing important.”
“It became important when I fell.”
He rubbed his forehead.
“You were upset about Dad.”
“That narrows it down.”
“You said the way he treated the catering staff was humiliating.”
Bridget remembered.
A young server had carried a tray through the wrong doorway.
Her father had stopped him in front of guests.
Not shouted.
Worse.
He had smiled and pointed toward the side hall.
“Staff entrance.”
The young man’s face had gone red.
Bridget had confronted her father later.
Her brother had followed her onto the balcony.
“You told me to let it go,” Bridget said.
“Yes.”
“You said I was ruining another family night.”
“Yes.”
“And then?”
“You leaned against the railing.”
“Did you know it was unsafe?”
Her brother looked down.
“I knew there had been tape.”
Bridget stopped breathing for a second.
“What did you think the tape meant?”
“I thought they were working on it.”
“You removed it.”
“I moved one side.”
“Why?”
“Dad hated how it looked.”
“So Marisol was right.”
His head came up.
“You talked to staff?”
The way he said staff made Bridget furious.
Not Marisol.
Not the server.
Staff.
A category.
People whose names became inconvenient when they knew too much.
“What exactly did Dad say?”
“He said the warning sign made the house look like a construction site.”
“And?”
“He told me to figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
“The party setup.”
“Did he say the railing was safe?”
“No.”
“Did anyone?”
“No.”
Bridget felt sick.
“You knew nobody had cleared it.”
“I didn’t think it would collapse.”
“That isn’t the same answer.”
“I know.”
The door opened.
Her father stood there.
Nobody had heard him knock.
He looked at his son.
Then at Bridget.
“What are you doing?”
Her brother stood.
“Talking.”
“About?”
Bridget answered.
“The balcony.”
Her father’s eyes hardened.
“You need rest.”
“I need the repair records.”
“No.”
That answer came so quickly it was almost a confession.
Bridget’s brother looked at him.
“Dad.”
Her father ignored him.
“The company has already inspected the damage.”
“Which company?”
“No concern of yours.”
“I fell through it.”
“And we will handle it.”
Bridget’s anger became strangely calm.
“Was somebody at the house before the party to inspect that railing?”
Her father said nothing.
“Did they tell you not to use the balcony?”
Still nothing.
Her brother looked between them.
“Dad?”
Her father turned toward him.
One look.
Her brother stopped.
Bridget saw it then.
The hierarchy.
Her brother was favored.
Protected.
Excused.
But not free.
He was thirty-something years old and still looked at their father before answering a question.
Bridget had spent years resenting him for benefiting from that system.
For the first time, she saw the other side of it.
He had traded independence for protection.
And now the bill had arrived.
The next morning, Bridget received an email from an unfamiliar address.
No message.
Just one attachment.
A photograph of a handwritten work order from the repair company.
VILLA — SECOND FLOOR WEST BALCONY.
The inspection date was six weeks before Bridget’s fall.
Under CONDITION, someone had written:
RAIL MOVEMENT / FASTENER FAILURE.
Under RECOMMENDATION:
DO NOT USE UNTIL FULL REPAIR.
At the bottom was a signature acknowledging receipt.
May you like
Bridget enlarged it.
Her father’s initials.
