Chapter 2 - The Badge That Never Slept
At 6:14 the next morning, I placed the brown envelope on my kitchen table and stared at it as though it might explode.
My mother was still asleep in the living room.
Owen's alarm would ring in sixteen minutes.
Maisie would wake ten minutes after him and insist she could choose her own clothes, then somehow come downstairs wearing two different socks.
My life was about to become ordinary again.
Lunch boxes.
Cereal.
Missing homework.
School drop-off.
That normality felt almost obscene.
I opened the envelope.
Inside was a single photocopy.
Northgate Development, LLC.
Operating Agreement.
I recognized the document immediately.
I had helped draft the original.
Page seventeen contained the ownership schedule.
TRAVIS FENWICK — 50%.
ELIZA FENWICK — 50%.
I stared at the percentages.
The agreement was old.
Very old.
Before the investors.
Before the restructuring.
Before Travis had convinced me that Northgate needed “simplification” while I was pregnant with Maisie.
At the bottom someone had circled a paragraph.
Any transfer, pledge, reassignment, or material alteration of a founding member's ownership interest required written consent witnessed by two independent parties.
Below it was another handwritten message.
ASK WHERE YOUR CONSENT WENT.
I turned the page over.
Nothing.
No name.
No phone number.
But I knew the handwriting.
Marianne Cole.
Northgate's first bookkeeper.
Marianne had worked with us from the kitchen-table years until shortly after Maisie was born.
Then she disappeared.
At least, that was how Travis described it.
“She quit without notice.”
I remembered being surprised.
Marianne had loved the company.
More importantly, she had loved details.
She kept paper copies of everything because she trusted servers about as much as she trusted politicians.
Then, one Monday, her desk had been empty.
Travis told me she had taken another job.
I called her twice.
No answer.
Eventually life swallowed the question.
Now a document written in her unmistakable block lettering was sitting in my apartment.
Inside a cabinet.
Someone had entered my home.
I immediately checked the lock.
No damage.
My mother stirred.
“Eliza?”
I slid the papers into a cookbook.
“Morning.”
She appeared in the doorway, gray hair flattened on one side.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I didn't sleep.”
“Work?”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
Technically true.
“Mom?”
“Hmm?”
“Did anyone come here yesterday?”
“No.”
“Maintenance?”
“No.”
“Delivery?”
She shook her head.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
Her expression told me she didn't believe that.
But Owen's alarm sounded upstairs before she could ask.
By eight, both children were at school.
At 8:17, I called my divorce attorney, Rachel Kim.
I didn't mention the transfer.
I asked a different question.
“Rachel, what documents show my current ownership interest in Northgate?”
There was a pause.
“Current?”
“Yes.”
“The disclosures Travis's counsel provided show that he holds the controlling interest.”
“How?”
“Through restructuring.”
“What did I sign?”
Another pause.
“Eliza, we've been requesting the historical restructuring documents.”
“And?”
“We haven't received a complete chain yet.”
I stood very still.
“What does that mean?”
“It means they've produced summaries and later agreements, but several underlying documents are missing.”
“Documents with my signature?”
“Potentially.”
“When did you last ask?”
“Last week.”
“And what did they say?”
“That archived records are being located.”
Archived records.
I thought of Claire.
I thought of Marianne.
“Rachel, don't tell Travis's attorneys I called about this.”
“Eliza—”
“Please.”
Her voice sharpened.
“Has something happened?”
I wanted to tell her everything.
Instead I remembered the anonymous warning.
DO NOT TAKE THAT DOCUMENT TO YOUR DIVORCE ATTORNEY YET.
Not because Rachel was untrustworthy.
Maybe because communications were being watched.
“I found an old agreement.”
“What agreement?”
“I'll bring it to you when I'm ready.”
“Eliza, if you're concerned about evidence, don't alter anything.”
“I won't.”
“And don't confront Travis.”
I almost smiled.
“Trust me. That's the last thing I'm going to do.”
That evening I returned to Northgate.
Same uniform.
Same cleaning cart.
Same badge.
But everything looked different.
Every electronic lock now felt like a witness.
I swiped into the executive floor.
Green light.
7:03 p.m.
The access system had recorded me.
I began photographing the time every time I used my badge.
7:03.
7:28.
8:11.
If Travis was building a history around me, I would build my own.
At 8:40, Claire passed me without stopping.
“Conference room B,” she murmured.
I waited seven minutes before entering.
She was inside.
“You got the envelope?”
My stomach tightened.
“You know about it?”
“Yes.”
“Did you put it in my apartment?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
Claire looked at me.
“You already know.”
“Marianne?”
A tiny nod.
“Where is she?”
“I don't know.”
“You're working with someone you can't locate?”
“She contacts me.”
“How?”
“Different ways.”
“Why?”
“Because she thinks Northgate's systems are monitored.”
I folded my arms.
“By Travis?”
“Not just Travis.”
That bothered me.
“Who else?”
“Victor has administrator access to the financial archive.”
“Why?”
“That's what I started wondering.”
Claire opened her laptop.
She showed me a spreadsheet.
Rows of badge entries.
My badge number appeared dozens of times.
Then I noticed the dates.
Some were impossible.
“What am I looking at?”
“Your building access.”
I pointed.
“That says I entered the records room Thursday at 1:16 a.m.”
“Yes.”
“I was home.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because I checked the cleaning contractor's timekeeping system. You clocked out at 11:08.”
My skin prickled.
Another entry.
Saturday.
3:42 a.m.
Executive archive.
I hadn't worked Saturday.
Another.
Sunday morning.
Copy center.
I looked at Claire.
“My badge is being used when I'm not here.”
“Not physically.”
“What?”
“The credential is being duplicated in the access database.”
I sat down.
“So they're creating entries?”
“That's what it looks like.”
“How long?”
She scrolled.
“Since your second week.”
There were twenty-three questionable entries.
My humiliation had been manufactured into evidence.
Not only was I a cleaner with access.
According to Northgate's own system, I wandered through restricted rooms in the middle of the night.
“Print this.”
“I already did.”
She handed me an envelope.
I almost laughed.
“You're becoming very good at envelopes.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Then her expression changed.
“What?”
She turned the laptop toward herself.
Someone had just logged into the security administration portal.
User:
T.FENWICK.
Travis.
Claire shut the spreadsheet.
“Go.”
I grabbed my cart.
“Eliza.”
I turned.
“Don't use your badge for anything you don't absolutely need tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because he's looking at the logs right now.”
I left.
For forty minutes, nothing happened.
Then my radio crackled.
“Eliza?”
Supervisor.
“Yes?”
“Can you handle the old records room tonight?”
I stopped pushing the cart.
The old records room was normally cleaned by day staff.
“Why?”
“Special request from executive management.”
Of course.
I looked down the hallway.
A security camera faced me.
“Sure.”
I pushed the cart toward the records wing.
My badge opened the first door.
Then the second.
I photographed both timestamps.
The records room smelled like paper and dust.
Shelves covered three walls.
Half the boxes were gone.
On the center table sat one black binder.
Too deliberate.
I didn't touch it.
Instead, I photographed it from where I stood.
The label read:
FENWICK — HISTORICAL AUTHORIZATIONS.
A trap.
It had to be.
I turned to leave.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
DON'T TOUCH THE BINDER.
I stared.
Then another message arrived.
LOOK UNDER THE BOTTOM SHELF.
I crouched.
Nothing.
Then I saw a thin white envelope taped beneath the metal shelf.
I pulled it free using my cleaning cloth.
Inside was a printed badge report.
My badge report.
But this version contained another column the report Claire showed me did not.
SOURCE.
Most legitimate entries said:
CARD READER.
The late-night entries said:
ADMIN MANUAL.
My pulse quickened.
Manual entries.
Someone had created them.
At the bottom was an administrator ID.
VH-004.
Victor Hale.
I photographed everything.
Then I heard the lock behind me click.
Someone was entering.
I slid the report into my uniform.
The door opened.
Travis stood there.
He looked at me.
Then at the black binder.
Then back at me.
“Eliza.”
I forced myself to keep breathing.
“Travis.”
His eyes settled on my cleaning cart.
“What are you doing in here?”
“My supervisor sent me.”
“Did he?”
“Yes.”
Travis stepped inside and closed the door.
I hated how familiar his face still was.
This was the man who had held my hand during Owen's birth.
The man who once drove forty minutes at midnight because I wanted peach ice cream.
The man who now apparently needed fake records showing me entering locked rooms.
He glanced at the binder.
“Find anything interesting?”
I shrugged.
“Dust.”
His mouth moved slightly.
Almost a smile.
“You always were stubborn.”
“And you always hated dirty offices.”
He came closer.
For one terrible second, I thought he knew.
Then his phone rang.
He looked at the screen.
His expression changed.
Not fear.
Shock.
“Where did you get this number?” he said.
He turned away from me.
I couldn't hear the person on the other end.
But I heard Travis's next words.
“You're supposed to be gone.”
My heart stopped.
He walked quickly into the hallway.
I remained frozen until the door swung nearly shut.
Then his voice came back through the narrowing gap.
One name.
May you like
A name I hadn't heard him say in six years.
“Marianne?”
