Chapter 2 - The Necklace He Wouldn't Buy Me
I closed the folder and slid it beneath my father's desk blotter.
The door opened.
Gavin stood there.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
His eyes moved around the room.
Then they settled on the open bottom drawer.
“What are you doing in here?”
“My father lived here.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you asking?”
He stepped inside.
Gavin had changed out of his suit.
Gray sweater.
Dark trousers.
Bare feet.
To anyone else, he would have looked like a husband trying to repair a marriage after an argument.
I knew better now.
“Couldn't sleep,” I said.
His gaze returned to the drawer.
“Looking for something?”
“No.”
He studied me.
Fourteen years of marriage taught you another person's tells.
Gavin rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger when nervous.
He was doing it now.
“Your father kept a lot of old business records.”
“So?”
“Nothing. I'm surprised you never cleaned this room out.”
“You've suggested that before.”
“Have I?”
“Three times.”
He smiled faintly.
“Maybe I hate clutter.”
“My father wasn't clutter.”
The smile disappeared.
I walked past him.
He didn't stop me.
But when I reached the hallway, I heard him open the drawer farther.
I kept walking.
My heartbeat didn't settle until I reached the stairs.
The anonymous message remained on my phone.
I didn't reply.
Not yet.
At 6:10 the next morning, Gavin was gone.
His side of the guest bed hadn't been slept in.
I returned to the study.
The drawer was empty.
The folder was gone.
For one terrible second, panic hit me.
Then I remembered.
I had moved it.
Before leaving the study the night before, I had slipped the folder behind a row of my father's old tax binders.
Gavin had searched the drawer and found nothing.
I retrieved it.
This time I photographed every page before reading.
My father had been an investor.
Most people knew that.
What very few people knew was how early he had invested in Gavin.
Fourteen years ago, Prescott Strategic Holdings wasn't a corporate empire.
It was Gavin, two employees, borrowed office space, and a business plan.
My father provided $2.4 million in seed capital.
I had known that.
I hadn't known the terms.
Henry Caldwell hadn't simply invested.
He had structured the investment through a private holding company.
Caldwell Legacy Partners.
According to the documents, that company held conversion rights allowing it to claim a controlling stake if Gavin triggered any of several conditions.
Fraud.
Unauthorized transfer of assets.
Misrepresentation to shareholders.
Use of corporate funds for undisclosed personal benefit.
My eyes stopped on the last sentence.
Corporate funds.
The necklace.
I kept reading.
After my father's death, ownership of Caldwell Legacy Partners had transferred into a trust.
Beneficiary:
Victoria Caldwell Prescott.
Trustee:
A name I recognized.
Samuel Reed.
My father's attorney.
I hadn't spoken to Samuel in almost three years.
My phone rang.
Unknown number again.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Victoria?”
An older man's voice.
I knew it immediately.
“Samuel?”
“Thank God.”
I stood.
“You texted me?”
“Yes.”
“How did you know I opened the folder?”
“Your father arranged an alert.”
“What kind of alert?”
“A very Henry kind.”
Despite everything, I almost laughed.
Samuel continued.
“We need to meet.”
“Tell me what this is.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Samuel.”
A pause.
“Your husband has spent four years trying to locate documents that could cost him control of Prescott Strategic Holdings.”
My stomach tightened.
“Why?”
“Because he knows your father discovered something.”
“What?”
“I'll tell you in person.”
“When?”
“Ten.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“Does Gavin know you're involved?”
“He knows I was Henry's attorney.”
“That's not what I asked.”
Samuel went silent.
Then:
“Yes.”
I closed my eyes.
“How bad is this?”
“Victoria, do you remember when Gavin told you your father had opposed your marriage?”
I did.
That lie had damaged the final years of my relationship with Dad.
“He said Dad never trusted him.”
“Henry didn't trust him.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
Samuel's voice softened.
“Your father wasn't trying to break your marriage. He was trying to protect you from what he'd found.”
At 9:52, I entered Samuel's office.
He was seventy-one now.
White hair.
Dark suit.
Same steady eyes.
He hugged me.
“I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For waiting.”
He placed a box on the table.
Inside were copies of bank statements.
Corporate expense reports.
Property records.
And photographs.
Sophie appeared in several.
Not romantic photographs.
Business photographs.
Sophie entering banks.
Sophie meeting accountants.
Sophie carrying document boxes.
The dates went back six years.
My mouth went dry.
“She wasn't his assistant six years ago.”
“No.”
“She joined Prescott four years ago.”
“Officially.”
I looked at Samuel.
“What was she before?”
“An intermediary.”
“For Gavin?”
Samuel nodded.
He pushed forward a bank statement.
“Your father discovered that money was being moved out of Prescott Strategic Holdings through consulting companies.”
“How much?”
“Initially? About three million.”
“Initially?”
“Henry believed it eventually exceeded twenty-two million.”
I sat back.
“Why wasn't Gavin arrested?”
“Because Henry died before he finished proving where the money went.”
I looked at the documents.
“And you?”
“I had pieces. Not enough.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Your father ordered me not to unless one of two things happened.”
“What things?”
“Gavin attempted to transfer control of the company.”
“And the second?”
Samuel looked at me.
“You stopped trusting your husband enough to open that folder.”
My throat tightened.
Dad had known me too well.
I pulled out my phone.
“The necklace.”
“What necklace?”
I showed Samuel a photograph from the jeweler's website.
Then explained.
His expression sharpened.
“Do you know how it was purchased?”
“Gavin says company money.”
Samuel leaned back.
“Then your husband may have just given us what Henry couldn't.”
I stared at him.
“How?”
“If the purchase was routed through the same accounts, it gives us a current transaction. Current transactions are easier to trace than six-year-old ones.”
My phone buzzed.
Gavin.
I declined it.
Samuel handed me a card.
“Call this woman.”
The name read:
MAYA COLLINS — FORENSIC ACCOUNTING.
“Your father hired her.”
“Is she still investigating?”
“She never stopped watching the public filings.”
I looked at Samuel.
“You're telling me my dead father has had people watching my husband's company for four years?”
“No.”
He hesitated.
“I'm telling you your father built a mechanism that would wake up if Gavin made the wrong move.”
My phone rang again.
This time Sophie.
I answered.
“Victoria?”
Her voice shook.
“What?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“I don't think that's wise.”
“You don't understand.”
“You sat on my husband's lap wearing a necklace he bought with money that may not belong to him. I understand enough.”
Silence.
Then Sophie whispered:
“He didn't buy it for me.”
I frowned.
“What?”
“The necklace wasn't a gift.”
“Then why were you wearing it?”
“Because Gavin needed me to.”
“For what?”
She started crying.
Not loudly.
The frightened crying of someone who had realized she was disposable.
“There was a meeting after the video call.”
“With whom?”
“I can't say on the phone.”
“Then don't call me.”
“Victoria, wait.”
I waited.
Sophie inhaled.
“Your husband thinks you inherited a house from your father.”
“I did.”
“He doesn't know about the rest.”
My eyes went to Samuel.
“What rest?”
“That's why he's been moving the money.”
Samuel stood.
I put the call on speaker.
“Sophie,” I said. “Where are you?”
A sound came through the phone.
A door.
Then a man's voice in the distance.
Sophie whispered one final sentence.
“He's here.”
The call ended.
Thirty seconds later, a photograph arrived on my phone.
It showed Gavin entering Sophie's apartment building.
May you like
And he wasn't alone.
He was carrying my father's missing black briefcase.
