Chapter 3 - The Report in His Drawer
Lena asked whether the report was real.
“Yes,” I said, “but the page is wrong.”
The heading belonged to an old vendor-risk engagement, but the footer had been cut off and the findings had been replaced with language that suggested I had concealed a payment irregularity.
Someone had made it look as though I falsified evidence.
I photographed both sides of the paper before touching the edges again.
Then I called Priya.
Her answer was immediate.
“Do not send that document to anyone else.”
I explained that it had appeared at my home.
She asked me to transmit a picture through an approved channel and preserve the original separately.
The real engagement report had been produced under a restricted team workspace.
My father had no legitimate reason to possess even the title page.
Priya promised to involve Northline's security counsel.
That night I slept on Lena's couch with a kitchen chair wedged under the door because I couldn't stop hearing my father's voice.
Now you'll listen.
At seven the next morning, my mother called from an unfamiliar number.
She sounded as though she had been crying for hours.
“He says you forged the bank document yourself to ruin him.”
The sentence might have hurt if I hadn't expected it.
“Do you believe him?”
Silence.
“Mom.”
“I know you didn't sign it.”
“Then say that in a formal statement.”
Her breathing faltered.
“You know what happens when people challenge your father.”
“Yes,” I said.
“I woke up to three empty bank accounts.”
She asked to meet somewhere public.
I chose a diner across from the courthouse and told Lena where I was going.
My mother arrived carrying the same purse from the bank.
She wouldn't order coffee.
Instead, she opened her bag and withdrew a narrow green notebook.
My father's handwriting covered its pages.
Dates, amounts, initials, and abbreviations marched down the columns.
“This used to be his appointment book,” she said.
“Then he started using it for things he didn't want on the company computer.”
I recognized one of the initials.
CJH.
Mine.
Beside it was an amount far larger than the money he'd stolen from my personal accounts.
“Why is my name next to six hundred thousand dollars?”
My mother stared at the tabletop.
“He told me the money was already yours.”
I felt the room recede.
“What money?”
She turned to the back cover.
An old photograph was tucked inside.
It showed my grandmother standing beside my father outside Hail Advisory's first office.
On the back, in my grandmother's angular writing, were five words.
May you like
For Claire, when she's ready.
