Chapter 2 - The Woman Behind the Returns
Fay stopped breathing for a second.
“Lydia?”
Conrad's younger sister stood in the doorway.
Lydia Harwick was thirty-five, elegant, controlled, and usually impossible to surprise. Tonight she looked as if someone had removed every layer of polish she normally wore as armor.
In her right hand was a folded receipt.
In her left was a phone.
“Before either of you says anything,” Lydia said, “I can explain.”
Conrad's eyes hardened.
“That sentence has never improved a situation.”
Fay glanced between them.
“What are you doing with my receipt?”
Lydia entered and closed the bedroom door.
“I found it.”
“Where?”
“In Celeste's office.”
Conrad went still.
Celeste Warren had been his executive household manager for four years.
She coordinated deliveries, charitable events, household vendors, private purchases, travel arrangements, and nearly everything else Conrad considered too minor to demand his direct attention.
Including Fay's dresses.
Conrad held out his hand.
“Give it to me.”
Lydia handed him the receipt.
The refund routing number matched the one on his phone.
“Celeste's account?” he asked.
“No.”
“Then whose?”
Lydia hesitated.
“Mother's foundation.”
Fay stared.
“Elena's foundation?”
Lydia nodded.
Conrad looked at the transaction again.
His mother ran the Harwick Women's Renewal Foundation, a respected organization funding shelters, vocational programs, and emergency housing.
Fay had volunteered there twice.
“Why would refunds from my dresses go there?” Fay asked.
“I don't know.”
Conrad looked at Lydia.
“You know more than you're saying.”
“I know Celeste has been handling the orders.”
“I already knew that.”
“She hasn't been ordering what you requested.”
Conrad's eyes narrowed.
Lydia continued.
“I checked the purchase invoices. The original orders were for custom gowns.”
Fay frowned.
“Custom?”
“Made to your measurements.”
Silence.
Conrad slowly turned toward Fay.
“I told them to make whatever they bought fit you.”
Fay stared at him.
That detail changed something.
Not everything.
But something.
“What happened to those gowns?” Conrad asked.
Lydia swallowed.
“They were canceled before production.”
“By whom?”
“Celeste.”
“And replaced?”
“With off-the-rack sample sizes.”
Fay looked at the red gown.
“So someone really was doing this intentionally.”
Conrad's jaw tightened.
“Apparently.”
The hurt Fay had tried to bury suddenly became something else.
Anger.
“Why?”
Lydia shook her head.
“I don't know.”
Conrad did not believe her.
“Try again.”
Lydia met his eyes.
“Mother knows.”
The room seemed to shrink.
Fay spoke first.
“Elena?”
“I heard her arguing with Celeste yesterday.”
“About me?”
Lydia nodded.
“What did she say?”
Lydia looked uncomfortable.
“Lydia.”
“She said the dresses had gone too far.”
Fay's stomach dropped.
Too far.
Those words meant there had been a beginning.
A plan.
Something that was supposed to happen—but not this much.
Conrad's phone was already in his hand.
“Don't,” Lydia said.
He looked at her.
“Don't what?”
“Call Mother while you're angry.”
“I am not angry.”
All three of them knew that was worse.
Fay stepped between them.
“I'm calling her.”
Conrad looked at his wife.
“This involves you.”
“Exactly.”
She took out her own phone.
Elena answered on the fourth ring.
“Fay?”
“Elena, I need to ask you something.”
A pause.
“Of course.”
“Did you know my custom gowns were being canceled?”
Silence.
Fay closed her eyes.
That silence answered enough.
“Come to the house,” Fay said.
“Fay—”
“Tonight.”
Another pause.
“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”
The call ended.
Conrad paced toward the window.
Fay watched him.
“You really ordered custom dresses?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I thought telling you ruined the gift.”
“You're astonishingly bad at gifts.”
“I am learning that.”
Lydia sat on the edge of a chair.
“There may be more.”
Conrad turned.
“What?”
“Celeste resigned this afternoon.”
His expression sharpened.
“Why wasn't I told?”
“She didn't submit the resignation to you.”
“Who received it?”
“Human resources.”
Conrad immediately called.
Three minutes later, he had confirmation.
Celeste had resigned at 4:17 p.m.
Effective immediately.
She had returned her company phone.
Her access cards had been deactivated.
But one thing was missing.
A black leather accounting binder used for private household purchases.
The binder contained handwritten authorization codes.
Conrad ended the call.
Fay looked at him.
“This isn't about dresses anymore, is it?”
“No.”
Twenty-two minutes later, Elena arrived.
Conrad's mother was sixty-eight, silver-haired, graceful, and furious that nobody had allowed her to recover from pneumonia before returning to committee meetings.
She entered the sitting room and immediately looked at Fay.
Not Conrad.
Fay noticed.
“Elena,” she said, “tell me the truth.”
Elena removed her gloves.
“I knew Celeste changed the orders.”
Conrad's voice was low.
“How long?”
“After the third gown.”
“And you said nothing?”
“I confronted her.”
“You said nothing to us.”
“I thought I'd handled it.”
Fay leaned forward.
“Why was she doing it?”
Elena looked ashamed.
“She claimed she was protecting the Harwick image.”
Fay gave a small laugh.
There it was.
The sentence she had expected all along.
Conrad looked at his mother.
“Explain.”
“Celeste believed Fay would be scrutinized at the foundation gala. She said custom gowns in Fay's measurements would draw attention from fashion reporters.”
Conrad's expression became almost unreadable.
“So she deliberately sent my wife clothes that wouldn't fit her?”
“Yes.”
“To accomplish what?”
Elena's voice softened.
“To pressure Fay into using a stylist and weight-management consultant before the gala.”
Fay stared at the floor.
Conrad stood.
“Where is Celeste?”
“Conrad.”
“Where?”
“I don't know.”
Fay stood too.
“Sit down.”
Conrad looked at her.
“Please.”
He obeyed.
That mattered.
Fay turned to Elena.
“And the refunds?”
Elena frowned.
“What refunds?”
“They went into the foundation.”
Elena's face changed.
“What?”
Lydia handed her the receipt.
Elena studied it.
“No. This isn't one of our operating accounts.”
Conrad looked up.
“You're sure?”
“I've signed every foundation account authorization for fourteen years.”
She pointed to the routing information.
“This number resembles ours, but the final digits are different.”
Conrad took the paper.
A mimic account.
Close enough to pass casual review.
Different enough to redirect money.
“Celeste wasn't just humiliating Fay,” Lydia said.
“She was hiding theft,” Conrad replied.
Fay felt sick.
The dresses had been camouflage.
Small refunds.
Small enough that nobody around a man handling enormous sums would investigate.
Six gowns.
$850 here.
$1,400 there.
$2,200.
Nothing compared with Conrad's business accounts.
But if Celeste had tested the method with dresses, what else had she redirected?
Conrad's financial manager began checking.
The answer arrived forty minutes later.
Charitable event deposits.
Household purchases.
Vendor reimbursements.
Canceled travel bookings.
Tiny pieces taken from dozens of transactions.
Total suspected diversion:
$417,000.
Elena sat down slowly.
“My God.”
Conrad's anger became quieter.
Fay knew that expression now.
He wasn't thinking about money.
He was thinking about trust.
“Why use my dresses?” she asked.
Nobody answered immediately.
Then Lydia spoke.
“Because nobody expected Conrad to ask why they were returned.”
Fay looked at him.
Conrad looked back.
The truth was uncomfortable.
Celeste had understood him.
She had known his pride would interpret Fay's returns personally.
She had predicted he would become irritated rather than curious.
And she had been right.
Conrad stood beside Fay.
“I gave her the weakness she needed.”
Fay shook her head.
“She exploited both of us.”
“But I helped.”
“You made a mistake.”
“Six times.”
“Yes.”
He looked at her.
“I'm not going to pretend you didn't.”
Something softened in his face.
“Thank you.”
“For not comforting you?”
“For telling me the truth.”
Elena reached for Fay's hand.
“I should have told you after the third dress.”
“Yes,” Fay said.
Elena nodded.
No excuses.
That mattered too.
At 11:18 p.m., Conrad's security director entered the sitting room.
“We found Celeste's company car.”
“Where?”
“Union Station garage.”
“Was she there?”
“No.”
The director placed a small envelope on the table.
“This was on the driver's seat.”
Conrad opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Fay recognized herself immediately.
She was leaving the women's shelter two weeks earlier.
Someone had photographed her from across the street.
On the back were four handwritten words.
SHE KNOWS TOO MUCH.
Fay's skin went cold.
“Knows what?”
Nobody answered.
Conrad turned the photograph over again.
There was something else in the corner.
A date.
Tomorrow.
And beneath it, an address Fay recognized.
The women's shelter.
Her phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
One message.
DON'T LET CONRAD COME WITH YOU.
Fay looked up.
May you like
Before she could speak, a second message appeared.
COME ALONE, AND I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT HIS FAMILY HAS BEEN HIDING.
