Chapter 13 - SEVENTY-TWO HOURS
By sunrise, we knew three things.
Peter Lawson had been arrested.
Malcolm Pierce had disappeared.
And somebody with old Sterling biometric authority had removed the Cedar Ridge ledger before any of us knew we needed it.
The fourth thing arrived at 6:14 a.m.
We had seventy-two hours.
Evelyn Ross called while I was still sitting beside Daniel’s hospital bed.
“The court accepted the emergency trust petition.”
My stomach tightened.
“What does that mean?”
“It does not mean they agreed you’re incompetent.”
“Good.”
“It means they scheduled an expedited hearing.”
“When?”
“Monday morning.”
It was Friday.
“Seventy-two hours.”
“Yes.”
“What happens if we lose?”
“A temporary fiduciary could be appointed.”
“Dominic?”
“Potentially.”
Dominic stood near the window.
He shook his head immediately.
“I’ll refuse.”
Evelyn heard him.
“You can.”
“Then problem solved.”
“No.”
Her voice remained serious.
“If you refuse, the petition names an alternate.”
“Who?”
A pause.
“Hartwell Family Capital.”
Dominic’s face went white.
“My mother.”
“Effectively.”
Eleanor.
I almost laughed at the precision of it.
Humiliate me publicly.
Create evidence of instability.
Use a forged physician statement.
Name Dominic as temporary fiduciary because the court would view a spouse as natural.
If he refused, control would move to his family’s holding company.
A company eighteen million dollars in debt.
My trust would become their lifeline.
“What about the Bellmont transfer?”
I asked.
“Also Monday.”
“Same judge?”
“No.”
“Can we freeze it?”
“I requested an injunction.”
“And?”
“The opposing filing includes board consents.”
My father’s voice came through another line.
“Forged?”
Evelyn hesitated.
“Some.”
“Some?”
“One appears legitimate.”
“Whose?”
“Malcolm’s.”
“He was CFO.”
“He also held a board seat.”
“Not enough.”
“No.”
Evelyn took a breath.
“There is a second legitimate signature.”
“Who?”
She paused.
“William Sterling.”
My father went silent.
I looked at Daniel.
“He’s been dead eleven years.”
Evelyn continued.
“The consent is dated two months before his death.”
My father’s voice hardened.
“For a company that didn’t exist then.”
“Correct.”
“So impossible.”
“Unless the document was signed blank.”
Nobody spoke.
My grandfather had built Sterling Crown.
He also seemed to have left behind enough signed paper to haunt it for generations.
Evelyn continued.
“If Malcolm has original pre-signed corporate consents, he can attach them to later documents and create the appearance of historical authorization.”
“Would that hold up?”
“Ultimately, probably not.”
“Monday?”
“That depends on what we can prove by Monday.”
There was our clock.
Seventy-two hours.
Find Malcolm.
Find the ledger.
Prove my medical documents were forged.
Prove the hotel transfer was fraudulent.
And identify the person with legacy biometric access.
No pressure.
Daniel looked exhausted.
“You should sleep.”
I told him.
He almost smiled.
“You’re eight months pregnant.”
“I’m aware.”
“You’ve said that twice.”
“People keep reminding me.”
For the first time, something between us felt almost normal.
Brother.
Sister.
Sarcasm.
A relationship trying to build itself in the middle of disaster.
My father entered the room twenty minutes later.
Daniel looked away.
Dad stopped near the door.
“I won’t stay.”
Daniel said nothing.
“I wanted to see that you were alive.”
Still nothing.
My father looked toward me.
“Take care of him.”
Daniel laughed bitterly.
“Now she gets the assignment.”
Dad flinched.
“I deserved that.”
Daniel looked at him.
“You deserve more than that.”
“Yes.”
“Did Grandpa name someone else as successor?”
Dad’s expression changed.
“Not that I know.”
“Who had legacy biometric access?”
“Board chairman.”
“Grandpa.”
“Yes.”
“CEO.”
“You.”
“Yes.”
“Anyone else?”
Dad thought.
“Chief operating officer under old protocols.”
“Who was COO when Grandpa died?”
My father stopped.
We all knew the answer would matter.
“Malcolm.”
Dominic looked up.
“But Marcus said the biometric wasn’t Malcolm’s.”
Dad nodded.
“His old profile should be in archives.”
“Then whose profile matched?”
My father rubbed his forehead.
“I’m waiting on legacy personnel records.”
Daniel said,
“Caroline?”
Dad looked at him.
“What?”
“She worked for Sterling?”
“No.”
“But Mom did.”
My mother.
Dad stared.
“For one year.”
I sat straighter.
“Mom worked for the company?”
“Before you were born.”
“Role?”
“Corporate counsel.”
Of course there was more.
“Did she have archive access?”
“Possibly.”
Daniel looked at me.
“And biometrics.”
My father’s face changed.
“She may have.”
I stared at him.
“Mom is dead.”
“Yes.”
“So who could use her fingerprint?”
Nobody answered.
Then Daniel looked at my hand.
“Family biometrics can sometimes partially match.”
Marcus, who had just entered, shook his head.
“Not enough for modern systems.”
“Legacy system?”
He hesitated.
“Maybe.”
My father looked at me.
“You’re saying Vivienne could have triggered her mother’s old profile?”
Marcus shook his head.
“No.”
“What?”
“The archive logs recorded a full match.”
“To whom?”
Marcus held up a tablet.
“We recovered the legacy profile.”
My father stepped closer.
Marcus turned the screen.
The name beneath the biometric record.
MARGARET STERLING.
My mother.
My skin went cold.
“But she died eleven years ago.”
Marcus nodded.
“So either someone spoofed the system using preserved biometric data.”
“Or?”
I asked.
Marcus looked uncomfortable.
“Or the system is wrong.”
Daniel laughed.
“That’s comforting.”
My father stared at the log.
“What about camera footage from three days ago?”
“Deleted.”
“Of course.”
“Local cache?”
“Working on it.”
I thought of the wedding.
Seven missing minutes.
Same method.
Same pattern.
Malcolm did not just steal.
He erased the space around the theft.
“What happened three days ago?”
I asked.
My father looked confused.
“What do you mean?”
“Something made them take the ledger then.”
“Why not years ago?”
Daniel sat straighter.
“She must have hidden it well enough that Malcolm didn’t know where it was.”
“Until three days ago.”
“Yes.”
“What changed three days ago?”
Dominic looked suddenly ill.
I saw it.
“What?”
He shook his head.
“Nothing.”
“Dominic.”
He looked at me.
“Malcolm asked me about your mother.”
My heart tightened.
“When?”
“Tuesday.”
“What did he ask?”
“Whether you still had her things.”
“What things?”
“Personal papers.”
“Why?”
“He said old family documents might be useful for the development deal.”
“And what did you tell him?”
Dominic looked ashamed.
“That most of her records were stored at headquarters.”
My father swore.
“Did you mention Cedar Ridge?”
“No.”
“The archive?”
“Yes.”
My anger rose.
“Why?”
“Because he asked where legacy ownership documents were kept.”
“You gave the CFO of Sterling Crown information about Sterling Crown records.”
“He was the CFO.”
That was true.
It still hurt.
“What else?”
Dominic hesitated.
“I told him your mother had worked as counsel.”
My father stared.
“That information isn’t public.”
“Vivienne told me years ago.”
I frowned.
“I did?”
“At your mother’s anniversary dinner.”
I remembered now.
A small story.
Mom had once joked that she hated corporate law.
I never imagined it mattered.
Malcolm collected pieces.
That was what Eleanor had said.
He collected people.
He also collected fragments.
A casual sentence.
A password.
A resentment.
An old job title.
Then he assembled them into weapons.
My father’s phone rang.
He answered.
“Sterling.”
His face tightened.
“When?”
He listened.
“Send it.”
A file arrived.
Security had recovered three seconds of archive footage from three days earlier.
Three seconds.
Enough to see the door open.
Enough to see a person enter.
The angle showed only the side of a face.
A woman.
Dark coat.
Dark hair.
My father stared.
I did too.
The woman was roughly my height.
Her profile looked disturbingly familiar.
Not mine.
Older.
Daniel leaned toward the screen.
“Who is that?”
My father did not answer.
I knew why.
The woman looked like my mother.
Not vaguely.
Not in a way grief could invent.
She had the same nose.
Same chin.
Same way of tilting her head when looking down.
I whispered,
“That’s impossible.”
My father looked as though he could not breathe.
Marcus zoomed the image.
The woman wore a small pendant.
A gold oval.
My father’s hand shook.
“What?”
I asked.
He pointed.
“I gave your mother that necklace.”
My skin prickled.
“Could someone else have it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I buried her in it.”
Silence.
Daniel stared at him.
“You’re saying the necklace is in her grave.”
“Yes.”
The implications were horrifying.
Either someone had stolen jewelry from my mother’s burial.
Or the woman in the footage had somehow obtained an identical necklace.
Or the person my father buried eleven years earlier had not been wearing it after all.
Marcus looked toward my father.
“We need to verify burial records.”
My father stared at the screen.
I felt the baby move again.
Then my phone buzzed.
A text from Malcolm.
One image.
The Cedar Ridge ledger.
Open.
A handwritten page visible.
At the bottom was my grandfather’s signature.
Beside it, another.
MARGARET STERLING.
My mother.
May you like
Under the image, Malcolm had written six words.
ASK RICHARD WHO HIS WIFE REALLY WAS.
