Chapter 4 - THE MAN WHO DIED SIX MONTHS AGO
I read the message three times.
It didn't become more believable.
Thomas Reed was dead.
I had attended his funeral.
I had watched his wife place a white rose on his coffin.
I had stood beside his daughter while she cried.
I typed with trembling fingers.
PROVE IT.
The response came immediately.
WHEN YOU WERE 19, YOU FAILED YOUR FIRST ECONOMICS EXAM.
I stared at the screen.
Nobody knew that.
Not Dad.
Not Mom.
Not my friends.
Thomas had found me crying in an empty conference room during my first summer internship.
He had bought me terrible vending-machine coffee and told me failure was information, not identity.
Another message appeared.
YOU MADE ME PROMISE NEVER TO TELL ALEXANDER.
My knees nearly weakened.
Dad touched my shoulder.
“Claire?”
“It's him.”
“Who?”
“Thomas.”
Dad stared at me.
“That's impossible.”
I showed him the messages.
His expression became unreadable.
Then my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I answered.
“Thomas?”
Static.
Then breathing.
Then a voice I had not heard in six months.
“Claire.”
I closed my eyes.
It was him.
Older somehow.
Exhausted.
But unmistakably Thomas.
“Where are you?”
“Safe for another few minutes.”
“You're alive.”
“Barely.”
Dad reached for the phone.
I put it on speaker.
“Thomas.”
Silence.
Then Thomas said,
“Alexander.”
Dad's voice broke slightly.
“I buried you.”
“You buried an empty coffin.”
“Why?”
“Because someone tried to put me inside a real one.”
My eyes moved toward Victor Cross.
He was no longer smiling.
“Who?”
Thomas breathed slowly.
“I don't know who ordered it.”
“But I know who arranged it.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
I froze.
Thomas continued.
“Someone closer.”
Dad looked around the ballroom.
“Closer to whom?”
“To you.”
Mom stepped nearer.
“Thomas, tell us.”
Another silence.
Then he said,
“The Northstar files were created as leverage.”
“Victor Cross built the original network.”
“But someone inside Vale Holdings helped him.”
Dad whispered,
“Who?”
“I never learned the full identity.”
“Only initials.”
A.V.
Dad closed his eyes.
“They framed me.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To control you.”
Victor Cross finally moved.
He started walking toward a side corridor.
I pointed.
“Stop him.”
Security intercepted Victor.
He looked irritated rather than frightened.
“Remove your hands.”
Nobody moved.
Victor turned toward Dad.
“Alexander, this spectacle has gone far enough.”
Dad stared at him.
“My daughter was assaulted by your son.”
“And my son will answer for whatever actually happened.”
“He'll answer tonight.”
Victor smiled.
“You don't command the law.”
“No.”
Dad glanced toward the sealed doors.
“But I can preserve a crime scene until the people who do arrive.”
Sirens became audible outside.
Victor's smile weakened.
Thomas spoke through the phone.
“Claire.”
“Yes?”
“Listen carefully.”
“There are two versions of Northstar.”
“The one you have is incomplete.”
“Where's the complete one?”
“Inside the estate.”
I stared around.
“This estate?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Tonight's gala was the exchange.”
My stomach dropped.
“Exchange between whom?”
“I don't know.”
“But someone brought the master ledger here.”
Vanessa suddenly spoke.
“I know where.”
Damian shouted.
“No.”
Vanessa ignored him.
She looked at me.
“The charity auction.”
I remembered the auction display in the adjoining gallery.
Paintings.
Jewelry.
Rare books.
Antiques donated by wealthy families.
Vanessa whispered,
“Lot 17.”
“What is Lot 17?”
“A nineteenth-century music box.”
Victor Cross moved for the first time with genuine alarm.
“Vanessa.”
She looked at her father.
“You should have protected me.”
His voice dropped.
“Think carefully.”
“I have.”
She faced me.
“The ledger is inside it.”
Damian struggled against security.
“You're destroying us!”
Vanessa laughed.
“You did that years ago.”
Dad ordered two guards toward the gallery.
I followed.
“Claire.”
He tried to stop me.
“I started this.”
“No.”
He looked at my bruised face.
“They started it.”
I met his eyes.
“Then I'm finishing it.”
We entered the auction gallery.
Lot 17 sat beneath museum lighting.
A dark walnut music box.
Beautiful.
Ordinary.
Worth perhaps ten thousand dollars.
According to the auction catalog, Victor Cross had bid two million.
Dad noticed the number.
“So that's how they planned to transfer it.”
I nodded.
A security officer unlocked the glass case.
He lifted the music box carefully.
Nothing happened.
Then he opened the lid.
A delicate melody began playing.
Inside was velvet lining.
No ledger.
No drive.
Nothing.
Vanessa stared.
“No.”
She rushed forward.
“It was here.”
Dad looked at her.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“Then someone moved it.”
My phone vibrated again.
Thomas.
ONE OF THEM KNOWS YOU FOUND THE BOX.
I typed.
WHO?
His response arrived.
DON'T TRUST ANYONE WHO LEFT THE BALLROOM BEFORE LOCKDOWN.
I thought back.
Damian.
Vanessa.
Victor.
Mom.
Dad.
Guests.
Staff.
Then I remembered something.
Ten minutes before Damian cornered me, I had seen someone leaving the auction gallery.
Someone carrying a black leather case.
Someone I had trusted my entire life.
I slowly turned toward my father.
“Where's Uncle Richard?”
Dad's expression changed.
Richard Vale.
My father's younger brother.
May you like
Chief operating officer of Vale Holdings.
And the man who had signed Thomas Reed's death certificate as a witness.
