“Yes, I do.”
“She may lie.”
“I know.”
“She may tell you things designed to upset you.”
“I know.”
“You’re not there to interrogate her.”
“I know.”
He looked at me.
“You’re going anyway.”
“Yes.”
Rebecca looked up when I entered.
Her face changed.
Not guilt.
Relief.
“Natalie.”
I sat across from her.
“Where were you going?”
“Switzerland.”
“I know.”
She almost smiled.
Of course I knew.
“Why?”
“To meet someone.”
“Who?”
“Your father’s former partner.”
My breath stopped.
“My father did not have a partner.”
“He did.”
“No.”
“He did before you were born.”
I stared at her.
“What are you talking about?”
She looked toward the camera in the corner.
Then back at me.
“Martin Hayes was not just an accountant.”
I said nothing.
“He audited private development companies.”
“I know.”
“He also investigated them.”
“For whom?”
“Insurance firms.
Banks.
Sometimes regulators.”
My father had never told me that.
Rebecca continued.
“Twenty-nine years ago, he discovered a network of companies using architecture, construction, and design invoices to move money.”
My skin prickled.
“Money laundering?”
“Sometimes.
Kickbacks.
Hidden ownership.
Fake procurement.
It depended on the project.”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“Everything.”
I leaned closer.
“Explain.”
“Your father documented it.
Names.
Projects.
Accounts.”
“The ledger.”
“Yes.”
“Why did you have it?”
“Because he gave it to my father.”
I stared.
“Who was your father?”
Rebecca’s eyes filled.
“Samuel Sloan.”
The name meant nothing.
She saw that.
“He worked with your father.”
“Doing what?”
“Trying to expose the network.”
“And?”
“He died.”
A long silence.
“How?”
“Car accident.”
The way she said it told me she did not believe that.
I sat back.
“You’ve known this whole time.”
“Yes.”
“You joined my company because of my father.”
“Yes.”
The betrayal hit differently now.
More intimate.
Every lunch.
Every late-night presentation.
Every birthday gift.
Every time she had told me we were building something together.
“Was any of it real?”
Her face crumpled.
“All of it.”
“No.”
“Natalie—”
“You copied my files.”
“Yes.”
“You gave them to Eric.”
“Yes.”
“You created Aster Lane.”
“Yes.”
“You stole eighty-four thousand dollars.”
“No.”
I froze.
“What?”
“I did not move that money.”
“Then who did?”
“Eric.”
“Why?”
“Because he thought he finally knew where the master records were.”
I stared.
“What master records?”
Rebecca leaned forward.
“Your father did not leave the evidence in his ledger.”
“Then why steal it?”
“Because the ledger contains the map.”
“To what?”
She looked directly at me.
“Your invoices.”
For a moment, I thought I had misheard her.
“My invoices?”
“Your father knew you wanted to become a designer.”
“I was seventeen when he died.”
“He had been planning for years.”
“Planning what?”
“A way to preserve evidence where nobody would recognize it as evidence.”
My thoughts raced.
Invoices.
Purchase orders.
Vendor numbers.
Project codes.
My father had helped me set up my original accounting system when I started freelancing.
He had designed the numbering structure.
I remembered teasing him.
Why does a design invoice need twelve digits, Dad?
Because twelve digits can tell a better story than six.
I had thought he was being himself.
