Chapter 3 - The Ledger Behind the Wall
Adrian turned before Beatrice could speak.
The closet door swung outward.
A terrified young man stumbled into the room.
He raised both hands.
“Please.”
Adrian’s security team pinned him against the wall.
Beatrice recognized him.
“Evan?”
Evan Cole worked in Wilkes & Bell’s IT department.
He was twenty-four.
Quiet.
Nervous.
And currently shaking hard enough that his glasses slipped down his nose.
“I didn’t break in,” he said.
“Then why were you hiding in my closet?” Beatrice demanded.
“Because the people who did came back.”
Adrian stared at him.
“Start at the beginning.”
Evan swallowed.
Three weeks earlier, he had noticed someone accessing archived client files after midnight.
The credentials belonged to Charles Wilkes.
But Charles had been attending a conference in London.
Evan reported it.
The next morning his supervisor told him the access was authorized.
Two days later, Evan found Beatrice’s name in the access logs.
Someone was monitoring every file she opened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“I left a note under your keyboard.”
Beatrice remembered.
CHECK YOUR LOGIN HISTORY.
She had assumed it was an automated IT reminder.
“Then tonight,” Evan continued, “I saw two men enter your building. I followed them upstairs.”
“That was unbelievably stupid,” Beatrice said.
“I know.”
“Why?”
His answer surprised her.
“Because you were nice to me.”
Beatrice blinked.
“What?”
“My first week at Wilkes, everyone blamed me when the payroll server crashed. You stayed until midnight proving it wasn’t my fault.”
She barely remembered.
Evan did.
“You saved my job.”
Adrian’s gaze shifted toward her.
Beatrice suddenly felt self-conscious.
“What did they take?”
Evan pointed toward the empty space where her shoebox had been.
“That.”
“They wanted a key.”
“I heard them talking. They said the key wasn’t there.”
Beatrice’s pulse quickened.
“Because it isn’t.”
Adrian looked at her.
“Your grandmother’s house.”
She nodded.
They drove there before dawn.
The small brick house in Astoria had belonged to Eleanor’s mother.
Beatrice had not entered it since the funeral.
Dust covered the furniture.
The clock in the kitchen still hung crookedly.
Beatrice walked directly to the pantry.
“Christmas gifts,” Adrian said.
“My mother thought children never looked where canned vegetables were stored.”
“Was she right?”
“Unfortunately.”
Beatrice knelt.
At the bottom of the pantry was an old flour tin.
Inside were several faded ornaments.
Beneath them lay a small brass key.
Adrian crouched beside her.
“What does it open?”
“I don’t know.”
Beatrice searched the pantry.
Nothing.
Then she remembered her grandmother’s sewing room.
Upstairs, an old Singer sewing machine remained beneath a sheet.
Beatrice opened its drawers.
Thread.
Buttons.
Needles.
One drawer was locked.
The key fit.
Inside was a black ledger.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
She lifted it carefully.
Patrick Gallagher’s handwriting covered the first page.
If Eleanor is reading this, I failed.
If Beatrice is reading this, I am sorry.
Beatrice sat on the floor.
Adrian remained silent.
She turned the page.
Transactions.
Names.
Companies.
Dates.
Forensic notes.
Her father had reconstructed years of financial diversions.
But something was strange.
Many of the companies still existed.
Some were controlled by Wilkes & Bell clients.
Others were linked to Moretti Holdings.
“Adrian.”
He crouched.
She showed him.
His expression darkened.
“This company belonged to my uncle.”
“Which uncle?”
“Salvatore.”
“Still alive?”
“Yes.”
“Close to you?”
Adrian did not answer immediately.
“That complicated?”
“Yes.”
Beatrice continued reading.
One name appeared repeatedly.
C.W.
Charles Wilkes?
Maybe.
Then another.
S.M.
Salvatore Moretti?
Possibly.
Patrick had drawn arrows between them.
At the bottom of a page:
THEY AREN’T STEALING FROM EACH OTHER.
THEY ARE STEALING TOGETHER.
Beatrice looked at Adrian.
“Your family and Wilkes.”
“Two men aren’t two families.”
“That distinction may matter to you.”
“It matters very much.”
She closed the ledger.
“I need copies.”
“No internet.”
“I know.”
She photographed every page using an offline camera.
Adrian watched her.
“You’re very calm.”
“No, I’m terrified.”
“You don’t look terrified.”
“That’s because I spent six years in accounting meetings with men who explained my own spreadsheets to me.”
Adrian laughed.
A genuine laugh.
Beatrice looked up.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughed.”
“I’m allowed.”
“I wasn’t aware.”
Their eyes held.
Something warm and dangerous moved between them.
Beatrice broke eye contact first.
“Your queen comment was ridiculous.”
“Still thinking about it?”
“No.”
“You brought it up.”
She glared at him.
He smiled again.
For a man with such a frightening reputation, Adrian Moretti had an infuriatingly human smile.
Beatrice returned to the ledger.
Near the back, several pages had been removed.
“Missing.”
Adrian crouched.
“Cut out.”
“With a blade.”
“Recently?”
“No. The paper discoloration is uniform.”
Beatrice examined the binding.
“My father removed them.”
“Why?”
She turned to the final written page.
One sentence.
THE LAST ACCOUNT IS NOT MONEY.
Beneath it:
B.G.
Beatrice’s initials.
Her skin prickled.
“Why would my initials be in his ledger?”
Adrian said nothing.
A car door slammed outside.
Both looked toward the window.
Headlights swept across the ceiling.
Adrian stood.
“We leave.”
“But—”
“Now.”
His security team moved toward the stairs.
A voice called from downstairs.
“Beatrice?”
She froze.
Charles Wilkes.
“Beatrice, I know you’re here.”
Adrian motioned for silence.
Charles continued.
“I came alone.”
Adrian murmured, “He’s lying.”
“How do you know?”
“Men who come alone don’t announce it.”
Beatrice almost smiled despite herself.
Charles called again.
“I can explain everything.”
She looked at Adrian.
“I want to hear him.”
“No.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
His eyebrows lifted.
She walked downstairs.
Adrian followed.
Charles stood in the living room.
He looked exhausted.
His tuxedo jacket was gone.
“You found it,” he said.
Beatrice held the ledger behind her.
“Found what?”
“Don’t do this.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend.”
“You taught me.”
Charles flinched.
“Your father was a good man.”
“Don’t say his name.”
“I knew Patrick.”
Beatrice stared at him.
“You told me you’d never met him.”
“I lied.”
“Everyone seems very comfortable doing that.”
Charles looked toward Adrian.
“Moretti, this doesn’t concern you.”
“My company lost four point seven million dollars.”
“That money was returned.”
“Not yet.”
“It will be.”
Beatrice stepped forward.
“Who moved it?”
Charles looked at her.
“Someone who needed me to make it appear Moretti Holdings had authorized the transfers.”
“Who?”
“I can’t say.”
Adrian’s voice lowered.
“You can.”
Charles looked frightened.
Not of Adrian.
Of someone else.
That realization chilled Beatrice.
“Your father discovered something twenty-six years ago,” Charles said. “Something bigger than missing money.”
“What?”
“He found a list.”
“What list?”
Charles glanced toward the window.
Then toward the front door.
“People who had been bought. Accountants. Attorneys. Contractors. City officials. Business executives.”
Beatrice’s grip tightened around the ledger.
“Where is it?”
“He separated it from the ledger.”
“The missing pages.”
Charles nodded.
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“You came here because you thought I did.”
“Yes.”
“Did you send the messages?”
“No.”
“Did you threaten my mother?”
“No.”
“Did you order people into my apartment?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Charles looked at Adrian.
“Ask his uncle.”
Adrian went still.
“Salvatore?”
Charles nodded.
“He has been searching for Patrick’s pages for twenty-six years.”
Adrian’s face became unreadable.
“Why now?”
“Because someone told him Beatrice found the new transfers.”
“Who?”
Charles opened his mouth.
A crash sounded outside.
Adrian pulled Beatrice down.
The living-room window shattered.
No gunshot followed.
A brick landed on the carpet.
Wrapped around it was a sheet of paper.
Adrian’s security team rushed outside.
Beatrice stared at the brick.
Charles looked terrified.
Adrian removed the paper.
One sentence was printed across it.
BRING THE GALLAGHER WOMAN TO PIER 17 BEFORE MIDNIGHT TOMORROW.
Then Beatrice noticed something on the other side.
A photograph.
Her father.
May you like
Alive.
The timestamp printed beneath it was from three months after the date on his death certificate.
