Chapter 7 - My Father Had Been Paid to Stay SilentI thought I had misheard her.
No answer.
Again.
Voicemail.
I woke Tessa and Dad.
Within six minutes, I called Agent Keene.
Within twelve, police were dispatched to Rebecca Sloan’s Beacon Hill townhouse.
She was not there.
Her car was gone.
The front door stood open.
Nothing looked stolen.
But her home office had been destroyed.
Desk drawers dumped.
Laptop missing.
Books pulled from shelves.
A framed photograph shattered.
Keene called me at 3:07 a.m.
“Do not leave your apartment.”
“Do you think Adrian did this?”
“I think you need to stop investigating.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“No, Ms. Bennett.”
I hated when federal agents used professional tone to say nothing.
“What did Rebecca mean by another set of records?”
“We don’t know.”
“I do.”
“Then tell me.”
“Board minutes.”
Silence.
Whitmore Capital maintained secure paper copies of executive-session board minutes because Charles distrusted fully digital records.
Rebecca had once joked about it during a dinner.
“Charles thinks hackers can’t steal paper.”
At the time I laughed.
Now the comment mattered.
I told Keene.
He asked, “Where are they?”
“Executive archive. Thirty-seventh floor.”
“Whitmore headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“We’ve already secured parts of the building.”
“Parts?”
“Financial offices. Not all executive storage.”
“Then go now.”
“Ms. Bennett—”
“Rebecca called me because she thought those records mattered.”
“I understand.”
“Then please.”
A pause.
“We’re moving.”
I could not sleep.
At dawn, every television station was running photographs from the wedding.
My stained gown.
Eleanor’s face.
Adrian holding my hand at the altar.
Headlines multiplied.
WHITMORE WEDDING ERUPTS INTO FRAUD ALLEGATIONS
BRIDE EXPOSES FAMILY SECRETS AT ALTAR
FEDERAL AGENTS SEEN AT WHITMORE GRAND
Someone had filmed me holding the DNA report.
Someone else uploaded video of Eleanor shouting.
The clip had eight million views before breakfast.
Tessa stared at her phone.
“You’re trending.”
“I’m going to throw your phone out the window.”
She put it down.
“Fair.”
At 7:36 a.m., Charles Whitmore called.
I almost did not answer.
“Maya.”
His voice sounded wrecked.
“Mr. Whitmore.”
“Charles.”
“All right.”
“I owe you an apology.”
“You didn’t ruin my dress.”
“No.”
He paused.
“But I allowed a family culture in which Eleanor believed she could.”
That was unexpectedly honest.
He continued.
“I spent years telling myself Adrian would eventually stand up to her.”
I looked at the floor.
“So did I.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.”
There was another pause.
“Is Rebecca missing?”
My grip tightened.
“How do you know?”
“She was supposed to meet me at six this morning.”
“Why?”
“To show me something.”
“What?”
“She wouldn’t say by phone.”
I told him about her call.
Charles went quiet.
Then he said,
“There’s one archive Eleanor cannot access.”
“Which one?”
“My father’s.”
Whitmore Capital had been founded by Charles’s father, Henry, in 1968.
“What’s in it?”
“Documents from the company’s early years. Partnership agreements. Old trusts. Private correspondence.”
“How does that connect to Rebecca?”
“Three weeks ago, she asked me for access.”
“Why?”
“She said she was reviewing historical ownership structures before my succession announcement.”
My pulse quickened.
“Did you give it to her?”
“Yes.”
“Who else knew?”
“Adrian.”
Of course.
“Eleanor?”
“I don’t know.”
I stood.
“Charles, listen to me. Do not go to headquarters alone.”
“I’m already here.”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
“I came in at five.”
“Leave.”
“I want to know what my family did.”
“You can find out from somewhere with security.”
“I have security.”
“Your family owns the security company.”
Silence.
That landed.
Charles finally said, “I’ll stay in my office.”
“Lock the door.”
“Maya—”
“Please.”
He sighed.
“All right.”
At 8:10, Keene called.
They found the board minutes.
Several were missing.
But one file remained that should not have been there.
A resignation letter.
Drafted by Charles.
Dated three months in the future.
It announced his retirement for “health reasons.”
Attached was a board resolution naming Adrian interim CEO.
The signatures were forged.
Including Rebecca’s.
I felt cold.
“That’s the coup.”
“Yes,” Keene said.
“Where’s Rebecca?”
“Still missing.”
Then he added,
“We found blood in her garage.”
I sat down.
“How much?”
“Not enough to establish severe injury.”
But blood was blood.
I thought about Adrian.
The man who had slept beside me.
The man who kissed my forehead when I had migraines.
The man who planned a corporate takeover behind his father’s back.
Was he capable of hurting Rebecca?
I did not know.
That terrified me.
At 9:22, police found Rebecca’s car.
Abandoned near South Station.
Driver’s door unlocked.
Phone on the passenger seat.
Blood on the steering wheel.
No Rebecca.
At 10:00, Adrian called.
I answered.
“Where is she?”
No greeting.
He sounded exhausted.
“I don’t know.”
“Did you hurt Rebecca?”
Silence.
Then—
“Jesus, Maya.”
“Answer.”
“No.”
“Did you know she was meeting your father?”
Another silence.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“My father told me.”
“Why?”
“Because he asked why Rebecca was digging through grandfather’s archive.”
I closed my eyes.
“So you knew she found something.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“Adrian.”
“I don’t.”
He sounded sincere.
I hated that I could no longer trust my judgment.
“I need to see you.”
“No.”
“Please.”
“Talk to the agents.”
“This is about you.”
My stomach tightened.
“What?”
“Your name is in my grandfather’s archive.”
I stopped breathing.
“That’s impossible.”
“You’re thirty-two. Henry Whitmore died before we met.”
“I know.”
“Then why is your mother’s name there too?”
My knees weakened.
My mother had died twelve years earlier.
Anne Bennett.
Elementary-school librarian.
Daughter of a mechanic.
She had no connection to Whitmore Capital.
At least none I knew.
“What are you talking about?”
“I found a letter.”
“From who?”
“My grandfather.”
“To my mother?”
“No.”
Adrian paused.
“To your father.”
I looked toward the guest room.
Dad was sleeping.
“What did it say?”
“I’ll show you.”
“Send me a picture.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because Rebecca took the original.”
I closed my eyes.
“Adrian, where are you?”
“Thirty-seventh floor.”
My heart kicked.
“At headquarters?”
“Yes.”
“Is your father there?”
“I think so.”
“Leave.”
“Maya—”
“Get out of the building.”
Before he could answer, another call came through.
Dad.
From the guest room.
I frowned.
Then I heard his voice behind me.
“Maya?”
I turned.
Dad stood in the hallway holding his phone.
His screen displayed an incoming call.
From my mother’s old number.
The number had been disconnected for twelve years.
We stared at each other.
Then Dad answered.
“Hello?”
A woman’s voice came through the speaker.
Weak.
Breathless.
“Mr. Bennett?”
Dad turned white.
“Yes?”
“This is Rebecca Sloan.”
I grabbed the phone.
“Rebecca?”
“Maya?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m safe for now.”
“Where?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Who hurt you?”
She began crying.
Not loudly.
The exhausted crying of someone who had been terrified for hours.
“It wasn’t Adrian.”
I closed my eyes.
“Who?”
May you like
Rebecca whispered two words.
“Charles Whitmore.”
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