Chapter 8 - SIX DAYS TO JANUARY FIRST
Richard asked everyone except Martin, Elise, and me to leave his office.
Douglas refused at first.
Patricia refused longer.
Then Richard told security to wait outside the door.
That ended the discussion.
I watched my husband walk out without looking at me.
Patricia did look at me.
Her stare promised that, in her mind, I had done something unforgivable.
That was almost impressive considering the morning’s evidence.
When the door closed, Richard returned to his desk.
He looked exhausted.
“What I am about to tell you is confidential,” he said.
Elise answered before I could.
“My client is not agreeing to confidentiality without a written basis.”
Richard nodded.
“Fair.”
He folded his hands.
“Then I will tell you only what is necessary.”
I remained standing.
“I think necessary passed a while ago.”
He looked at me.
There was no condescension in his face.
Only calculation and something that might have been regret.
“The board has been planning leadership transition for eighteen months.”
“I knew Douglas was being considered.”
“He was more than considered.”
Richard’s mouth tightened.
“I supported him.”
That admission seemed difficult.
“Despite the way he has been acting?”
“I did not know the way he has been acting.”
I said nothing.
He looked toward the windows.
“I thought his arrogance was immaturity.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
He looked back at me.
“I understand that now.”
Martin opened a folder.
“The succession resolution scheduled for December thirty-first transfers chief executive authority to Douglas but leaves Mr. Reeves as executive chairman for twelve months.”
“Why the rush?” I asked.
Richard answered.
“Three institutional investors wanted certainty before the new year.”
“And if the board learns about Harbor Gate?”
“The vote stops.”
“Which Douglas knew.”
“Yes.”
“And Patricia knew.”
“Yes.”
I thought about Christmas dinner.
Patricia’s smile.
Douglas’s phone.
Their irritation when Richard mentioned business.
They had been sitting at that table less than a week before a vote worth control of a two-thousand-person company, with a fraud problem buried under my grandmother’s name.
The cruelty suddenly looked less random.
“Why did Douglas humiliate me yesterday?” I asked.
Richard frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“I do.”
Elise looked at me.
I continued.
“He wanted me small.”
The sentence came out more quietly than I expected.
“If I was busy being embarrassed about a chair, I was not asking about his phone.”
Richard did not disagree.
Martin slid a document toward him.
“The audit committee can convene on forty-eight hours’ notice.”
Richard looked at me.
“If we take the vendor evidence to them now, they will suspend Douglas immediately.”
“Then do it.”
“It is not that simple.”
I laughed without humor.
“It is always fascinating when rich people arrive at that sentence.”
Martin looked down to hide a reaction.
Richard did not smile.
“If we accuse the incoming chief executive of diverting company funds without understanding the full mechanism, lenders may freeze facilities.”
“That sounds like a company problem.”
“It becomes a payroll problem very quickly.”
I thought of two thousand employees.
Truck drivers.
Dispatchers.
Warehouse workers.
People with mortgages and children and December credit card bills.
Richard knew exactly why that argument would matter to me.
I resented him for being right.
“What do you want from me?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
“For what?”
“To trace the payments quietly.”
Elise immediately said, “No.”
Richard looked at her.
“My client is already exposed.”
“I understand.”
“No, you understand the company exposure.”
Elise’s voice sharpened.
“Whitfield & Table is named on fraudulent invoices totaling at least one point eight million dollars.”
“She could be questioned by banks, tax authorities, insurers, and law enforcement.”
“She is not waiting while the Reeves family decides which scandal-management strategy is most comfortable.”
Richard absorbed that without arguing.
Then he looked at me.
“What do you need?”
The question surprised me.
I answered anyway.
“Written confirmation from Reeves North Atlantic that the disputed invoices were not issued by Whitfield & Table.”
Martin began taking notes.
“Immediate preservation of every email, login, approval record, payment file, and vendor change related to my company.”
Richard nodded.
“Done.”
“Independent forensic accountants, not someone who reports to Douglas.”
“Done.”
“Your company pays for my legal and forensic costs if this traces back to your executives.”
Martin looked at Richard.
Richard said, “Reasonable.”
“And nobody contacts my employees except through me or Elise.”
“Agreed.”
I hesitated.
“One more thing.”
Richard waited.
“I want Caleb locked out of every Reeves system now.”
Martin checked his phone.
“He was disabled twenty minutes ago.”
“Where is he?”
Nobody knew.
That bothered me.
Elise asked, “What about Harbor Gate?”
Richard’s expression darkened.
“We are pulling public records now.”
“I already have the managers.”
I named them.
“Douglas Reeves.”
“Marissa Cole.”
“Caleb Mercer.”
Richard’s eyes narrowed at Marissa’s name.
“Who is she?”
I looked at him.
“Ask your son.”
He understood immediately.
His jaw tightened.
“Of course.”
I almost felt sorry for him again.
Then he said, “I need you to tell me how you learned about the fake invoices.”
I did not mention Marissa’s call.
She had warned me not to.
I did not trust her.
But I wanted to know why she was afraid of Richard before I exposed her.
“I saw one payment reference in my joint account history.”
“That account received company funds?”
“No.”
I explained the line item and the screenshot.
Martin frowned.
“That may have been a memo reference carried through a transfer.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Yes.”
My phone buzzed.
It was Nadia.
She had stepped into the hallway with a call from our bookkeeper.
I answered.
“What is it?”
Her voice was tight.
“You need to come downstairs.”
“Why?”
“Caleb is here.”
I stood.
“Where?”
“In the lobby.”
“Security should stop him.”
“They did.”
“Then what is the problem?”
“He brought a lawyer.”
I looked at Elise.
“And a resignation letter.”
“That’s not surprising.”
“No.”
Nadia paused.
“The rest is.”
“What rest?”
“He says he has proof you ordered him to create the Whitfield invoices.”
I did not move.
Nadia continued.
“He has emails with your name on them.”
For a second, nobody in Richard’s office spoke.
Then Elise stood.
“Do not talk to him.”
I grabbed the banker’s box.
We went downstairs.
Caleb was waiting behind the lobby security desk with a gray-haired attorney beside him.
He looked terrible.
His eyes were bloodshot.
His shirt was wrinkled.
He held a thick envelope in both hands.
When he saw me, guilt crossed his face.
Then fear replaced it.
“Simone.”
I stopped ten feet away.
“How much did Douglas pay you?”
His attorney touched his arm.
Caleb ignored him.
“It was not supposed to become this.”
“How much?”
“Simone, listen to me.”
“You changed my passwords on Christmas Day.”
“I was trying to preserve the files.”
“You tried to delete an audit log.”
His face went pale.
“You saw that?”
“Yes.”
His lawyer stepped forward.
“My client is prepared to cooperate through counsel.”
Elise moved beside me.
“Then start by producing the alleged emails.”
Caleb handed his attorney the envelope.
The attorney gave it to Elise.
She opened it.
Inside were printouts.
The first email appeared to come from me.
The address was mine.
The signature was mine.
The writing even sounded like me.
The message instructed Caleb to “reclassify Reeves hospitality expenses under the consolidated event agreement.”
The next told him to “route overflow payments through the alternate settlement account.”
The third said, “Douglas has approved the structure.”
I read the date.
October 17.
I had been in Chicago catering a medical conference that day.
The email had been sent at 11:43 p.m.
I remembered the night clearly because the hotel fire alarm went off just after midnight.
I looked at Caleb.
“I did not send this.”
He swallowed.
“I know.”
Everyone went still.
His attorney closed his eyes.
Elise leaned forward.
“What did you just say?”
Caleb looked directly at me.
“I know you did not send them.”
“Then why are you carrying them around as proof that I did?”
“Because Douglas told me yesterday that if I did not, he would make sure the originals disappeared and leave me alone with the fraud.”
My skin went cold.
“Who wrote them?”
Caleb’s hands began shaking.
“I did.”
I stared at him.
He looked down.
May you like
“But I wrote them from a mailbox Patricia gave me.”
