Chapter 2 - The Name Beneath the Numbers
"Twenty years?" Penelope asked.
The hotel employee nodded.
"Those were the instructions attached to it."
Larkin appeared beside her.
"Who left it?"
"I don't know, sir."
Thomas reached for the envelope.
Larkin caught his wrist.
"No."
The cousins stared at each other.
Penelope had never seen Larkin touch Thomas in anger.
Thomas slowly withdrew his hand.
"You're making a scene."
"I don't care."
That alone told Penelope something had fundamentally changed.
Larkin always cared.
Appearances were part of his armor.
Penelope examined the envelope.
Her full name appeared across the front.
PENELOPE ANNE WOODS.
Very few people knew her middle name.
She broke the seal.
Inside was a single photograph.
A little girl stood beside a lake.
Maybe eight years old.
Brown hair.
Oversized glasses.
Penelope's knees weakened.
It was her.
She remembered the photograph.
Her mother had taken it during their only family vacation before everything fell apart.
Penelope turned it over.
A handwritten sentence covered the back.
IF SHE EVER COMES TO WORK FOR MY SON, TELL HER THE TRUTH.
Below it was a signature.
Richard Steves.
Larkin's father.
Penelope looked up.
Larkin had gone pale.
"You know his handwriting?"
"Yes."
Thomas muttered something under his breath.
Larkin rounded on him.
"What do you know?"
"Not here."
"Then somewhere else."
Thomas glanced at Penelope.
"This has nothing to do with her."
"My name is literally written on the photograph."
Thomas ignored her.
"Larkin."
"Office. Now."
They left the gala through a private elevator.
No one spoke during the descent.
Penelope watched the floor numbers fall.
She had entered the evening expecting humiliation.
Now she was standing between two powerful men while carrying a key connected to a dead man's secret.
The absurdity almost made her laugh.
The elevator opened into a private underground garage.
Larkin's driver waited beside a black sedan.
Twenty minutes later, they entered the corporate tower through the executive entrance.
The forty-second floor felt different at night.
Empty cubicles.
Dark monitors.
City lights reflecting against glass walls.
Penelope looked at her desk.
Her gray cardigan remained draped over the chair.
Yesterday she'd believed that desk represented security.
Tonight it looked like camouflage she'd finally discarded.
Larkin entered his office.
Thomas followed.
Penelope remained standing.
Larkin closed the door.
"Talk."
Thomas poured himself water.
His hands shook.
Penelope noticed.
Larkin did too.
"My father knew Penelope?"
Thomas exhaled.
"Possibly."
"That's not an answer."
"Your father knew thousands of people."
"He had her childhood photograph."
Thomas looked at Penelope.
"Where's the key?"
Larkin's head snapped toward her.
"What key?"
Penelope sighed.
So much for keeping one advantage.
She opened her clutch and placed the brass key on the desk.
Larkin stared at it.
Thomas closed his eyes.
"Where did you get that?"
"Inside the clutch."
"Who gave you the clutch?"
"I bought it."
"Where?"
Penelope told him.
Thomas immediately took out his phone.
Larkin grabbed it.
"No calls."
"You're being paranoid."
"I'm beginning to think I haven't been paranoid enough."
Thomas's jaw tightened.
Penelope picked up the key.
"I received messages."
Both men turned.
She showed them.
Larkin read everything.
Thomas stared at the photograph attached to the message.
"What?" Larkin asked.
Thomas shook his head.
"What?"
"That woman."
"Who is she?"
Thomas looked toward the window.
"Her name was Evelyn Woods."
Penelope's heart stopped.
"My mother."
Larkin turned toward her.
Thomas sank into a chair.
The room became painfully quiet.
Penelope heard the hum of the ventilation system.
"My mother knew your father?"
Thomas nodded.
"She worked here."
Penelope laughed once.
It contained no humor.
"No. She was a bookkeeper for a manufacturing company."
Thomas looked at her.
"This was the manufacturing company."
Penelope stared.
Her mother had died when Penelope was seventeen.
A car accident.
A rainy highway.
A phone call at 2:13 in the morning.
Penelope remembered every detail.
Except apparently the important ones.
"Why did she lie?"
"I don't know."
"How long did she work here?"
"Almost nine years."
"Doing what?"
Thomas hesitated.
Penelope leaned across the desk.
"Doing. What?"
"The same thing you do."
Her stomach dropped.
"She managed the books."
Larkin looked from Thomas to Penelope.
"You knew this when we hired her?"
"No."
"Don't lie."
"I didn't."
Thomas stood.
"I recognized the surname after she started. Woods isn't exactly rare."
"But you checked."
Silence.
"You checked her background."
Thomas nodded.
"And?"
"I found Evelyn."
Penelope's hands curled against the desk.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because Richard made me promise."
"My father?" Larkin demanded.
Thomas nodded.
"Before he died."
Larkin walked toward the window.
His reflection stared back from the glass.
"What did he say?"
"That if Evelyn's daughter ever came here, we were supposed to leave her alone."
Penelope almost laughed.
"Leave me alone? You invited me tonight so you could humiliate me."
Thomas flinched.
For once, he had no joke.
Larkin looked ashamed.
That surprised Penelope.
"I'm sorry," he said.
Thomas stared at him.
Penelope did too.
She had never heard Larkin apologize.
He continued.
"Tonight was cruel. I knew it when I agreed to it."
Penelope studied him.
"Why agree?"
"Boredom."
"That's pathetic."
"Yes."
No defense.
No excuse.
Just agreement.
That disarmed her more than an argument would have.
Penelope took the key.
"I'm going to the storage unit."
"No," Thomas said.
"That wasn't a request."
"You don't understand."
"You're right. Because you've explained almost nothing."
Larkin picked up his coat.
"I'm coming."
The anonymous message had specifically said alone.
Penelope showed him.
"I don't care."
"I do."
"Someone has been watching you."
"And if they're watching me, they'll know whether I follow instructions."
Larkin stared at her.
"You're not walking into an unknown place alone."
"Mr. Steves—"
"Larkin."
"What?"
"If we're apparently unraveling a twenty-year family secret together, you can call me Larkin."
Thomas rubbed his face.
"This is insane."
Penelope looked at him.
"Then tell us what's in 4217."
"I don't know."
She believed that.
Which made things worse.
An hour later Penelope stood outside a climate-controlled storage facility.
Larkin waited two blocks away.
It was the compromise she'd forced him to accept.
She entered alone.
Unit 4217 sat at the end of a white corridor.
Penelope inserted the key.
It turned.
Inside were boxes.
Hundreds of them.
No treasure.
No dramatic mystery.
Paper.
Ledgers.
Files.
The entire hidden history of an organization built on numbers.
Penelope stepped inside.
A desk lamp suddenly turned on.
She jumped.
Someone had installed it on a timer.
On the desk beneath the light sat one file.
PENELOPE WOODS.
She opened it.
School records.
Medical bills.
College transcripts.
Employment applications.
Someone had followed her entire life.
At the bottom was an envelope.
FOR PENELOPE.
Her hands trembled as she opened it.
The letter inside was written by Richard Steves.
Penelope,
If you're reading this, then you came to work for my son despite everything your mother tried to prevent.
Evelyn discovered something in these books that could destroy everything I built.
She believed I was responsible.
She was wrong.
I spent years trying to prove it.
If I died before I could, she was instructed to take the evidence and disappear.
Penelope's breathing stopped.
Disappear?
Her mother hadn't disappeared.
She had died.
Penelope kept reading.
There is one person I trusted with the truth.
Thomas Dixon.
Her blood ran cold.
Footsteps sounded outside the unit.
Penelope slowly lowered the letter.
"Larkin?"
No answer.
The footsteps stopped.
Her phone rang.
Larkin.
She answered immediately.
"Where are you?"
"Inside."
"Get out."
Something in his voice terrified her.
"Why?"
"Thomas is gone."
Penelope looked toward the open storage door.
A shadow crossed the corridor.
Larkin's voice sharpened.
"Penelope, don't turn around."
She did.
May you like
Thomas Dixon stood in the doorway.
And in his hand was the second half of Richard Steves's letter.
