Chapter 10 - Arthur’s Secret Gift
Arthur arrived at my office before sunrise.
I placed the trust documents in front of him.
“Explain.”
He looked at the first page.
Then closed his eyes.
“I wondered when this would surface.”
I felt anger rise.
“Apparently everyone in this family has secret money.”
“This was different.”
“They always are.”
Arthur nodded.
“I deserve that.”
He sat.
“The year you married Marcus, I created a trust.”
“Why?”
“For you.”
“I didn’t ask for one.”
“No.”
“Did Marcus know?”
“Not initially.”
“How much?”
“Two million dollars.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
Arthur took a long breath.
“Because I already suspected Eleanor had hidden assets.”
“And?”
“I feared Marcus might eventually discover them.”
I shook my head.
“You suspected your son might steal, so you secretly gave me money?”
“No.”
He looked ashamed.
“I wanted you protected if the marriage failed.”
That stunned me.
“Before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“You thought it would fail?”
“I thought Marcus was too accustomed to being rescued.”
That was the most accurate description of him I had ever heard.
Arthur continued.
“I watched you build things. He watched you build things too, but he saw your success differently.”
“How?”
“As safety.”
I understood.
Marcus did not marry a woman.
He married an escape route.
Arthur pushed the document back.
“The trust was funded from my personal retirement investments. Legitimate money.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was ashamed to admit I had doubts about my own son.”
“And six months ago it was liquidated.”
His face changed.
“What?”
“You didn’t authorize it?”
“No.”
“Then someone forged you too.”
We examined the paperwork.
Arthur’s signature.
Notarized.
Witnessed.
The notary’s name was familiar.
I stared at it.
“Rachel Sloan.”
Arthur looked at me.
Rachel.
The woman who arrived in the rain with evidence.
The woman helping us trace everything.
The woman we had trusted.
I called her.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Security checked her access badge.
She had entered my office building at 4:11 that morning.
She had never left.
My stomach tightened.
We searched the finance department.
Empty.
Then the server room.
Unlocked.
Rachel stood beside the backup terminal.
A portable drive was connected.
She looked at us.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then she slowly raised both hands.
“Before you assume—”
“What are you doing?”
“Copying records.”
“You already had records.”
“Not these.”
Arthur pointed at the trust documents.
“Your signature is on the liquidation.”
Rachel stared.
Then laughed softly.
“Oh.”
I did not like that reaction.
“Oh?”
“That.”
She pulled out a chair.
“I wondered when Camille would use it.”
Arthur frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“My notary seal was stolen two years ago.”
“Did you report it?”
“Yes.”
She opened her email account and found the police report.
Verified.
I felt some tension leave my shoulders.
“What are you copying?”
“Access logs.”
“Why at four in the morning?”
“Because someone has been deleting them.”
That tightened everything again.
“Who?”
She turned the monitor toward us.
A list of remote logins.
One username appeared repeatedly.
P.SHAH.
Priya.
My CFO.
I stared.
“No.”
Rachel nodded.
“That was my reaction.”
“Credentials can be stolen.”
“Exactly.”
“So we don’t accuse anyone yet.”
“Exactly.”
I called Priya.
She answered sleepily.
“Ximena?”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
“Can you come in?”
“What happened?”
“I need you here.”
She arrived thirty-five minutes later.
Rachel showed her the logs.
Priya turned pale.
“I didn’t do this.”
“I believe that’s possible.”
She immediately pulled up security authentication records.
Then frowned.
“My credentials were used from an internal IP address.”
Rachel nodded.
“Exactly.”
Someone inside my company.
Not necessarily Priya.
We traced the workstation.
Accounting floor.
Terminal 27.
Assigned to an employee named Brenda Collins.
Brenda had worked for me for eight years.
Quiet.
Reliable.
Never late.
When we checked her desk, it was empty.
Her personal items were gone.
She had resigned by email at 5:03 a.m.
The message contained only two sentences.
I’m sorry.
They told me nobody would get hurt.
Police reached her apartment at 6:20.
She was not there.
But her laptop was.
On it, investigators found communications with an encrypted email address.
The sender had paid her to copy authentication credentials.
Not just mine.
Priya’s.
Arthur’s.
Several employees.
The payment account traced back to Singapore.
Camille.
We had her.
Or so I thought.
Then detectives discovered something worse.
Brenda had been paid long before Camille’s alleged gambling began.
Nearly four years earlier.
Someone had been preparing access to my business since the first year of my marriage.
Arthur stared at the timeline.
“Camille planned this from the start?”
Rachel shook her head.
“Maybe not Camille.”
“Then who?”
We found the earliest payment authorization.
It had come from Northbridge.
The authorizing manager?
Marcus Vance.
When confronted that afternoon, Marcus denied knowing Brenda.
Police showed him a photograph.
His face changed.
I saw it.
“You know her.”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
He looked trapped.
Then finally said, “She used to work at one of your stores.”
“She still works for me.”
“I mean before corporate.”
My stomach turned.
“How did you know her?”
Marcus looked at the detective.
Then at me.
“She introduced me to you.”
The room went silent.
“What?”
“Not officially.”
He rubbed his face.
“I had seen you before the museum fundraiser.”
“Where?”
“At your first flagship store.”
“How?”
“Brenda told me about you.”
I stared at him.
“Why would Brenda tell you about me?”
“She was dating a friend of mine.”
“Who?”
Marcus hesitated.
“Ivan.”
The entire puzzle rearranged itself.
Ivan had known my business before the affair with Eleanor.
Before the blackmail.
Before Northbridge supposedly became desperate.
I whispered, “How long have you known Ivan?”
May you like
Marcus stared at the floor.
“Since college.”
