Back then it had been affectionate.
Now the nickname seemed prophetic.
Victor raised a glass.
“To Adrian.”
Everyone echoed him.
Adrian smiled.
“To loyalty.”
For half a heartbeat, Victor’s eyes changed.
Only half.
But Adrian saw it.
Later that night, Rafael entered the study carrying a black folder.
“You were right.”
“How bad?”
“Worse.”
Adrian opened it.
Payroll diversions were only one part.
Pension funds had been drained.
Employee insurance premiums had been collected without full coverage being purchased.
Settlement payments from workplace injuries had disappeared.
Even bereavement benefits had been skimmed.
“How much?”
“Directly traceable? Twenty-eight million.”
Adrian looked up.
“Twenty-eight?”
“That’s what we can prove quickly.”
“And total?”
“Could be sixty.”
Adrian slowly closed the folder.
“Victor?”
“His fingerprints are everywhere.”
“Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“Crowe?”
Rafael nodded.
“All four.”
Adrian stared toward the windows.
Lake Michigan lay black beyond the glass.
“Why?”
Rafael placed another file on the desk.
“That’s where it gets strange.”
Inside were photographs of properties, trusts and financial transfers.
Victor owned less than Adrian expected.
So did the others.
“Where’s the money?”
“We don’t know.”
“You said sixty million.”
“Someone moved it out.”
“Who?”
Rafael opened the final page.
A single offshore account appeared.
The beneficial owner had been hidden behind layers of corporate registrations.
But one internal transfer code repeated dozens of times.
Adrian recognized it.
He had seen it before.
Years earlier.
On Margaret’s private foundation records.
His chest tightened.
“That’s impossible.”
Rafael said nothing.
Adrian looked at him.
“My wife is dead.”
“I know.”
“Then why is Margaret’s authorization key connected to these accounts?”
Rafael’s voice was quiet.
“That’s what we’re trying to understand.”
That night Adrian opened a room he had kept locked for two years.
Margaret’s office.
Dust coated the desk.
Her perfume had disappeared long ago, but his memory supplied it anyway.
Jasmine and cedar.
He stood inside for a long time before turning on the light.
After her death, Adrian had ordered everything left untouched.
He had not been sentimental by nature.
Margaret had made him sentimental.
He began searching.
Drawers.
File cabinets.
Bookshelves.
Nothing.
At midnight, June appeared in the doorway.
She had changed into her coat.
“I’m leaving.”
Adrian nodded without looking up.
Then she noticed the papers covering the room.
“Was this your wife’s?”
“Yes.”
June studied a photograph on the wall.
Margaret standing at a Blackwell employee picnic.
Children around her.
June stepped closer.
“I’ve seen her before.”
Adrian looked up sharply.
“Where?”
June pointed.
“That woman.”
“My wife?”
“I think so.”
“You never worked here when she was alive.”
“No.”
“Then where?”
June narrowed her eyes, thinking.
“I was in Peoria then.”
Adrian stood.
“Where did you see her?”
“I’m not sure.”
“June.”
She flinched at his intensity.
He softened his voice.
“Please.”
June looked again at the photograph.
“A church basement.”
Adrian’s heartbeat changed.
“What church?”
“Saint Matthew’s.”
“When?”
“Maybe three years ago. Maybe longer.”
Margaret died two years ago.
Adrian moved closer.
“What was she doing there?”
“I don’t know. My mother volunteered at the food pantry. Sometimes I helped.”
June’s face suddenly changed.
“She asked questions.”
“What questions?”
“About jobs.”
Adrian went still.
“She talked to women who worked for cleaning companies. Hotels. Nursing homes. She asked how much they earned.”
He could hear his pulse.
“Did she speak to you?”
“I don’t remember.”
Then June looked down at her bracelet.
And froze.
Slowly, she lifted her wrist.
“This.”
Adrian stared.
“What?”
“She made these.”
“What are you talking about?”
June touched the faded thread.
“There was a table for children. A woman was teaching them to stitch names into bracelets.”
Her eyes filled with disbelief.
“It was her.”
Adrian looked from the bracelet to Margaret’s photograph.
“She made that?”
“Not mine.”
June shook her head.
“My daughter’s. Lila made it for me.”
Adrian could barely breathe.
“Margaret taught her?”
“I think so.”
He sat down.
For two years he had believed Margaret’s final months had been spent running charities because grief over their inability to have children had pushed her toward volunteer work.
That was what she told him.
That was what Victor told him after she died.
But she had not been visiting food pantries merely to volunteer.
She had been interviewing workers connected to Blackwell companies.
A memory struck him.
Margaret standing in their bedroom three weeks before she died.
Do you actually know what your companies do when you aren’t looking?
