Chapter 5 - Three Point Four Million Reasons
I didn't confront Rebecca.
That was the hardest thing I had done yet.
Rebecca called me the next morning.
“Eliza, can I take the kids Saturday?”
My hand tightened around the phone.
For twelve years, she had been Aunt Rebecca.
Christmas presents.
Birthday cakes.
Emergency school pickups.
She had sat beside me in the hospital after Maisie was born.
Now her name was on a check connected to Northgate's first major contract.
“Sure,” I said calmly.
“You okay?”
“Just tired.”
“Travis giving you trouble?”
The irony nearly took my breath away.
“Nothing I can't handle.”
After the call, I met Rachel in person.
This time I told her more.
Not everything.
Enough.
The 2020 amendment.
The hospital record.
The historical resolution.
The suspicious ownership documents.
Rachel listened without interrupting.
When I finished, she removed her glasses.
“This isn't just a divorce issue anymore.”
“I know.”
“If documents were falsified—”
“I know.”
“We need specialists.”
“I know.”
She leaned forward.
“And you need to stop investigating this alone.”
“I'm not alone.”
That concerned her more.
“Who is helping you?”
“People who worked at Northgate.”
“Names?”
“Not yet.”
“Eliza.”
“I need to protect them.”
“And I need to protect you.”
That word.
Protect.
Travis had used it for years.
But Rachel's version felt different because she followed it with something Travis rarely did.
A choice.
“I won't force you,” she said. “But anything you give me, I can preserve properly and route through the right legal channels.”
I slid copies across the desk.
Not originals.
Never originals.
Her face changed as she read.
“This is significant.”
“I know.”
“And this?”
She pointed at the 2019 resolution.
“Original exists.”
“Where?”
“Safe.”
That was enough.
By evening, Rachel had contacted a forensic accountant and advised me to stop entering restricted Northgate areas unless my job specifically required it.
I agreed.
Then Northgate made that impossible.
At 8:05 p.m., my supervisor handed me a new cleaning schedule.
Executive records.
Finance copy center.
Travis's office.
Three locations connected to the questionable documents.
Every night.
I photographed the schedule.
“Who changed this?”
“Executive request.”
“Whose?”
He shrugged.
“You know how it is.”
Yes.
I did.
I cleaned exactly what I was assigned.
Nothing more.
Every time I entered a room, I photographed the clock.
Every time I left, another photograph.
At 10:32, Travis appeared.
“Working hard?”
“Apparently.”
“You always did.”
I kept wiping the conference table.
“Need something?”
He watched me.
“Rebecca says you're letting her take the kids Saturday.”
My hand stopped for half a second.
Then continued.
“She loves them.”
“She does.”
Something in his voice bothered me.
“Why?”
“No reason.”
He smiled.
“It's good you're not letting the divorce turn everyone into enemies.”
I looked at him.
“Are we enemies, Travis?”
His smile faded slightly.
“I hope not.”
“Then what are we?”
He stepped closer.
“Two people trying to survive something unpleasant.”
“No.”
I folded the cloth.
“We're two people who remember the same marriage very differently.”
For once, he had no quick answer.
I pushed the cart past him.
My phone vibrated before I reached the elevator.
Claire.
PARKING LEVEL B3. TEN MINUTES.
She was waiting beside a concrete pillar.
“You need to see this.”
She handed me a tablet.
Security footage.
Rebecca entering Northgate at 1:12 a.m.
Three nights earlier.
Using a visitor credential.
“Why was she here?”
Claire swiped.
Another clip.
Rebecca entering Travis's office.
Leaving forty-seven minutes later carrying a document box.
“Where did she take it?”
“B3 loading exit.”
“Camera outside?”
“Conveniently offline.”
I thought about the check.
“Claire, what do you know about Rebecca?”
“Not much.”
“Does she work for Northgate?”
“No.”
“Has she ever?”
“Not officially.”
There it was again.
Officially.
The word people used when reality had another version.
Saturday came.
I let Rebecca take the children.
Then Marianne and I met Victor in a private conference room at Rachel's office.
Victor brought financial records.
Not accusations.
Records.
Ashbourne Development Partners had received money from multiple Northgate project entities over three years.
Small transfers.
Consulting fees.
Development advisory charges.
Management expenses.
Individually, none looked extraordinary.
Together, they totaled $2.1 million.
The planned $3.4 million transfer would more than double it.
Rachel's forensic accountant, Daniel Cho, traced ownership.
Ashbourne led to Fenwick Strategic Holdings.
Fenwick Strategic Holdings led to a trust.
Beneficiary:
Rebecca Fenwick.
I sat back.
“Why Rebecca?”
Victor answered.
“Because Travis didn't want direct ownership.”
Rachel said, “That doesn't necessarily establish wrongdoing.”
“I know,” Victor replied.
Daniel pointed at another line.
“But this does raise questions.”
A Northgate project had paid $460,000 for “acquisition advisory services.”
The receiving company had no employees.
No office.
No visible operations.
Same trust.
Same beneficiary.
Rebecca.
“Was she helping Travis hide money?” I asked.
Nobody answered immediately.
Victor finally said, “I think Rebecca was holding it.”
“For him?”
“Yes.”
“Since Bellweather?”
“Yes.”
The old check suddenly made sense.
Not enough sense.
But enough to hurt.
My phone rang.
Rebecca.
I answered.
“Eliza?”
Something was wrong.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. The kids are fine.”
“Then why do you sound like that?”
A pause.
“Can we talk tonight?”
“About what?”
Another pause.
Then she said something I didn't expect.
“About my brother.”
I looked around the conference table.
Everyone was watching me.
“What about him?”
Rebecca's voice broke.
“I need to tell you what I did.”
I stood.
“Where are Owen and Maisie?”
“With Mom. They're safe.”
“Rebecca—”
“I thought I was protecting the family.”
My heart pounded.
“Protecting it from what?”
She began crying.
Then I heard a sound on her end.
A door.
Rebecca stopped.
“Someone's here.”
“Rebecca?”
Silence.
“Rebecca, who is it?”
Her breathing changed.
Then she whispered:
May you like
“Oh God.”
The call disconnected.
