Chapter 6 - THE GHOST INSIDE NORTHSTAR
Project Northstar had been named by Marcus.
Or so I thought.
When CipherStone first detected the fraud pattern, Marcus had walked into my office carrying three coffees and said, “We need a name for this monster.”
I suggested Atlas.
He hated it.
He suggested Northstar.
I agreed.
Now I was staring at a photograph proving someone had used that name a decade before our investigation existed.
I called Marcus at midnight.
“Why did you call it Northstar?”
He was silent.
“Marcus?”
“My father used to say it.”
My fingers tightened around the photograph.
“What?”
“Northstar.”
“What did it mean?”
“I never knew.”
His father had died nine years earlier.
He had been an accountant.
Quiet.
Meticulous.
And according to Marcus, terrified during the last year of his life.
“He started checking the locks three times every night.”
“Why?”
“He said he had made a mistake at work.”
“What kind?”
“He never told me.”
I looked at the man in the old photo again.
“Send me a picture of your father.”
Marcus did.
My blood ran cold.
The unknown man standing between Grandma and my father was Marcus’s father.
The connection was not new.
Our families had been tied together before Marcus and I ever met.
When I showed Marcus, he stopped speaking.
“Did you know?”
“No.”
“You never saw my father before?”
“Not once.”
“Grandma?”
“No.”
I believed him.
Or I wanted to.
That distinction had become dangerous.
The next morning, Naomi found the old warehouse.
It had belonged to a company called Northstar Commercial Storage.
The corporation dissolved eleven years ago.
Its final accountant was Marcus’s father.
One of its investors was my grandmother.
And its legal adviser was my father.
Dad had lied.
Mom had lied.
Grandma had secrets.
And Marcus’s father might have died knowing them.
At noon, Terrence called.
“I found something.”
He had returned to the condo he shared with Sydney.
She had left.
Most of her clothes were gone.
But she had forgotten an old tablet in a kitchen drawer.
Terrence knew the passcode.
Their anniversary.
Inside were messages between Sydney and Jason.
Hundreds.
Most were personal.
Some were explicit.
Then the tone changed six months earlier.
Sydney: MOM SAYS THE PAPERWORK HAS TO HAPPEN AFTER THE CEREMONY.
Jason: I KNOW.
Sydney: WHAT IF MELINE READS IT?
Jason: SHE WON’T.
Sydney: YOU DON’T KNOW HER LIKE I DO.
Jason: I KNOW EXACTLY HOW TO HANDLE HER.
My stomach turned.
Then another exchange.
Jason: COLIN SAYS THE FILE IS BIGGER THAN WE THOUGHT.
Sydney: DOES DAD KNOW?
Jason: YES.
Sydney: WHAT DOES NORTHSTAR MEAN?
Jason: ASK YOUR MOTHER.
I stopped.
Jason knew the name.
Months ago.
Before the wedding.
Terrence kept reading.
Then he found the message that changed everything.
Sydney: WHY IS MOM SO SCARED OF THAT FILE?
Jason: BECAUSE IT CAN PROVE WHAT HAPPENED TO MARCUS LEE’S FATHER.
Marcus stood beside me when Terrence read it aloud.
All the color drained from his face.
“My father died in a car accident.”
No one answered.
He repeated it.
“He died in a car accident.”
Naomi asked softly.
“Were you ever shown the police file?”
“No.”
“Autopsy?”
“No.”
“Vehicle report?”
“No.”
Marcus sat down.
“My mother handled everything.”
We pulled the old records.
The accident had occurred on a wet rural highway.
Single vehicle.
No witnesses.
The official report said Marcus’s father lost control.
But one detail caught Naomi’s attention.
The brake line had been damaged.
The investigating officer attributed it to impact.
A mechanic’s note disagreed.
The damage may have occurred earlier.
The note had never been followed up.
Marcus stared at it for nearly a minute.
Then my phone rang.
Dad.
I answered.
“You need to stop.”
“People keep telling me that.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
“You’re digging into things you don’t understand.”
“Then explain them.”
Silence.
“What happened to Marcus Lee’s father?”
Marcus looked at me.
Dad inhaled sharply.
That was enough.
“You knew him.”
“I knew a lot of people.”
“Did Grandma work with him?”
Dad did not answer.
“Did you?”
Another silence.
Then Dad said something strange.
“Ask Marcus what his father left him.”
Marcus frowned.
I put the call on speaker.
“What are you talking about?”
Dad heard him.
For the first time, his voice cracked.
“Marcus?”
“Yes.”
“You need to look inside the old blue toolbox.”
Marcus went rigid.
“What toolbox?”
“Your father kept it in the garage.”
“How do you know?”
Dad ended the call.
Marcus stared at me.
“My mother still has that toolbox.”
Two hours later, we were inside her garage.
His mother, Helen, stood in the doorway looking confused and frightened.
Marcus opened the rusted blue box.
Wrenches.
Old receipts.
Electrical tape.
Nothing.
Then he removed the bottom tray.
There was a false panel.
Underneath sat a sealed envelope.
On the front, in faded handwriting, were four words.
FOR MARCUS.
TRUST EVELYN’S GRANDDAUGHTER.
My grandmother’s name.
Me.
Marcus opened the envelope.
Inside was a flash drive.
And a handwritten note.
IF YOU ARE READING THIS, NORTHSTAR FAILED.
DON’T TRUST ROBERT.
DON’T TRUST DIANE.
AND WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T LET THEIR DAUGHTER SIGN ANYTHING.
The letter had been written nine years before Jason and I met.
Nine years before my wedding.
Nine years before my parents supposedly decided they needed my signature.
May you like
Someone had known this day might come.
And apparently, the scheme surrounding me had begun long before I ever became the bride.
