Chapter 5 - The Price of Telling the Truth
Beatrice didn't turn it off.
“Mom.”
Margaret closed the door.
“Please.”
“Who is he?”
Her mother sat.
“He was your father's partner.”
The voice belonged to Richard Hale, a respected retired auditor and longtime family friend.
Uncle Richard.
The man who had attended Thomas Gallagher's funeral.
The man who sent Beatrice birthday cards until she was twenty-five.
The man who had recommended Beatrice for her job at Gallagher & Wilkes.
She felt nauseated.
“He put me there.”
Margaret nodded.
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“To watch you.”
Dante's expression darkened.
Margaret explained what she had hidden for nineteen years.
Thomas had suspected Richard of leaking information to Wilkes.
He never proved it.
After Thomas died, Richard became strangely attentive to the Gallagher family.
Margaret had believed it was guilt.
Now she understood.
It had been surveillance.
Vanessa's recording confirmed Richard was still involved.
Wilkes could be heard demanding new identification documents.
Richard replied:
“Gallagher was supposed to take the fall years ago. The daughter complicated everything.”
Beatrice replayed the sentence.
Once.
Twice.
Then she stopped.
“I'm done being afraid.”
Dante looked at her.
“Good.”
She spent the following day with investigators.
No dramatic confrontations.
No revenge.
Just evidence.
Dates.
Signatures.
Access logs.
Bank records.
The boring things that destroyed sophisticated lies.
And Beatrice was very good at boring things.
By afternoon, investigators had enough to freeze several accounts.
By evening, Richard Hale had been located.
Wilkes remained missing.
Public opinion began changing.
Reporters discovered Beatrice had flagged discrepancies before the scandal.
Former employees contacted investigators.
Some described Wilkes's intimidation.
Others described discriminatory comments.
Several remembered Beatrice.
“She fixed my payroll mistake and never embarrassed me.”
“She stayed until midnight when my retirement account was wrong.”
“She was the best accountant in the building.”
For the first time, Beatrice heard people discuss her without mentioning her body.
It should have felt triumphant.
Instead, it made her sad.
She had always been this person.
They simply hadn't bothered to notice.
Dante found her sitting on Samuel's office stairs.
“You disappeared.”
“I moved twenty feet.”
“That's disappearing when twelve reporters are downstairs.”
He sat beside her.
For several moments, neither spoke.
Then Beatrice asked:
“Why did you really call me your queen?”
“I told you.”
“No. You gave the cameras an answer.”
He looked forward.
“When I walked into that ballroom, I saw everyone laughing.”
“So?”
“You weren't laughing.”
“That generally happens when you're the joke.”
“You weren't crying either.”
“I did that later.”
“I know.”
She looked at him.
“You know?”
“You cried in the car.”
“You weren't supposed to notice.”
“I notice you.”
The simplicity of it hurt more than she expected.
Dante continued.
“My entire life, people have reacted to my name before they met me.”
“Fear.”
“Usually.”
“Mine is laughter.”
“I know.”
“So we're opposites.”
“No.”
He turned toward her.
“We're both tired of strangers deciding who we are before we speak.”
Beatrice became very still.
Dante held out his hand.
The same gesture from the ballroom.
This time nobody was watching.
Beatrice placed her hand in his.
“Better?” he asked.
“Maybe.”
“Accountants hate certainty.”
“Good accountants do.”
He smiled.
Then Beatrice did something that surprised them both.
She kissed him.
It was brief.
Gentle.
Then she pulled away.
Dante stared at her.
“Was that an accounting decision?”
“Preliminary audit.”
“Results?”
“More investigation required.”
He laughed.
Beatrice had never heard Dante Moretti laugh.
She liked it.
Too much.
Then her phone buzzed.
The warmth vanished.
A photograph appeared.
Margaret leaving her house.
Timestamp: three minutes earlier.
Another message followed.
BRING THE ORIGINAL LEDGER.
Beatrice stood.
Dante read it.
“Call your mother.”
She did.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Then Margaret's number called back.
Beatrice answered.
“Mom?”
Wilkes spoke.
“Hello, Beatrice.”
Her blood froze.
“If you hurt her—”
“Stop.”
Wilkes sounded exhausted.
Not powerful.
Desperate.
“That ledger destroyed everything.”
“You destroyed everything.”
“Bring it.”
“No.”
A pause.
Then her mother's frightened voice:
“Bea, don't—”
The call ended.
Dante was already moving.
Beatrice grabbed his arm.
“No.”
“What?”
“We do this my way.”
“He has your mother.”
“And that's exactly why I'm not letting anger choose what happens next.”
Dante recognized his own words.
He nodded.
They called investigators.
The ledger remained secured.
A copy was prepared instead.
Wilkes sent a location.
The old Gallagher & Wilkes warehouse in Brooklyn.
Beatrice insisted on going.
Authorities positioned nearby.
Dante remained with her.
“You stay behind me.”
“No.”
“Beatrice.”
“If this ends with me hiding behind another man, Wilkes still gets what he wanted.”
“This isn't symbolic.”
“I know.”
“Then please.”
She looked at him.
The word surprised her.
Please.
Not an order.
She squeezed his hand.
“I'll be careful.”
They entered.
Wilkes stood beneath an industrial light.
Margaret sat nearby.
Unharmed.
Richard Hale was with them.
Beatrice's heart broke when she saw him.
“Uncle Richard.”
He looked older than she remembered.
“Don't call me that.”
“Gladly.”
Wilkes held out his hand.
“The ledger.”
Beatrice raised the duplicate.
“First my mother.”
“You're in no position—”
“You spent nineteen years assuming Gallaghers could be frightened into silence.”
Her voice remained steady.
“My father proved you wrong.”
Wilkes laughed bitterly.
“Your father got himself killed because he couldn't leave things alone.”
Silence.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
Richard turned sharply.
“Harold.”
Wilkes realized what he'd said.
Too late.
Beatrice whispered:
“What did you say?”
Wilkes backed away.
“I didn't mean—”
“You said my father got himself killed.”
Richard grabbed Wilkes's arm.
“Shut up.”
Beatrice looked at Richard.
Then at Wilkes.
“You know what happened.”
Nobody answered.
Margaret began crying.
Beatrice's voice broke.
“What happened to my father?”
Wilkes stared at her.
Then something shattered behind them.
The warehouse side door swung open.
Everyone turned.
A man stepped through.
Beatrice recognized him from an old photograph.
May you like
A man who was supposed to have died seventeen years ago.
And he said her father's name.
