Chapter 12 - The Woman They Intended to Blame
For the first time since I'd met her, Darlene Stanley looked truly afraid.
Not frightened of pain.
Not frightened of losing her company.
Frightened that the evidence we'd fought to uncover might point directly toward her.
"That's impossible," she whispered.
Rebecca's voice remained calm.
"The record shows an approval associated with your executive account."
"I never approved anything connected to Rachel Walker."
"I understand."
Darlene stared at the phone.
"Then someone used my credentials."
"That's one possibility."
I stepped closer.
"What are the others?"
Rebecca answered.
"The record could be altered."
"It could reflect delegated access."
"Or someone may have used the account without authorization."
Darlene closed her eyes.
I remembered every document she'd signed.
Every meeting she'd attended.
Every moment she'd used her authority as though it were an extension of her own body.
Now that authority was being turned against her.
I looked at her.
"Did Arthur have access to your account?"
"Not directly."
"Victor?"
"No."
"Your executive assistant?"
"Limited delegated access for certain approvals."
"Who was your assistant when Rachel died?"
Darlene's face changed.
"Miranda."
"Miranda who?"
"Miranda Cross."
I recognized the name.
She was still at Oakridge.
A quiet woman in her early forties who managed executive schedules and confidential documents.
I'd seen her countless times.
She rarely spoke to anyone outside the executive floor.
She brought Darlene tea every afternoon.
She organized meetings.
She smiled politely when board members passed.
And she had access to almost everything.
Darlene reached for the desk.
"Miranda has worked for me for fifteen years."
I looked at her.
"Then we need to speak with her."
"No."
Darlene shook her head.
"Not until we understand the evidence."
I stared at her.
"You're still protecting people."
"I'm preventing us from making an accusation without proof."
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
She was right.
I hated it.
But she was right.
That evening, Rebecca arranged an emergency meeting with the federal investigators reviewing the financial records.
We provided the evidence showing the electronic authorization.
Darlene consented to a forensic review of her account access history.
She also agreed not to contact Miranda about the issue until investigators determined the safest way to proceed.
I watched her sign the authorization.
Her hand trembled slightly.
Afterward, she looked at me.
"Do you believe I killed your wife?"
The question hit me harder than I expected.
I studied her face.
I thought about the woman I'd found struggling with her brace.
The way she had threatened me.
The way she'd apologized.
The way she'd reacted to Sophie's recording.
The way she'd listened when I spoke about Abigail.
"I don't know everything you did," I said.
Her eyes filled.
"But I don't believe you wanted Rachel dead."
She released a shaky breath.
"Thank you."
"That doesn't mean I won't ask hard questions."
"I would expect nothing less."
The next morning, the story exploded.
A financial news website published an article claiming Oakridge's chief executive was under investigation for improper payments connected to a fatal highway collision.
The article included a photograph of Darlene.
Another of me.
And a third of Abigail outside school.
I nearly dropped my phone.
They had published my daughter's face.
Her school uniform was visible.
Rebecca immediately began requesting the removal of identifying details and preservation of the publishing records.
The outlet removed the photograph.
But the damage was done.
Someone had connected my family to the scandal publicly.
Someone wanted the entire world to see us.
At Oakridge, employees whispered in hallways.
Reporters waited outside the building.
Victor called an emergency press conference.
He stood behind a podium decorated with the company logo.
His expression was solemn.
"My family is devastated by these allegations," he announced.
"While I cannot comment on an ongoing investigation, I believe transparency and accountability must come first."
I watched from Rebecca's office.
Victor continued.
"Oakridge employees deserve leadership they can trust."
He paused.
"And the families of those harmed deserve answers."
I felt anger rise.
The man threatening my child was now pretending to defend victims.
Then a reporter asked about me.
Victor sighed.
"Mr. Walker is a former employee whose circumstances appear deeply unfortunate."
"Unfortunately, desperate people can sometimes be manipulated by powerful individuals."
I laughed bitterly.
Rebecca looked at me.
"Don't watch the rest."
I couldn't look away.
Victor continued.
"I hope Mr. Walker receives the support he needs."
Support.
The word made me sick.
That afternoon, my bank notified me that a large incoming transfer had been flagged for review.
It was the first installment of Darlene's consulting payment.
Rebecca examined the transaction.
"The escrow documentation is valid."
"So why is it frozen?"
"The bank wants clarification about the source and purpose because of the public allegations."
I looked at her.
"Victor."
"Possibly."
She closed the file.
"But we have to work with the facts."
I leaned back.
"Everything he touches turns into another problem."
Rebecca studied me.
"That's often how intimidation works."
"It doesn't have to defeat you."
"It only has to exhaust you."
She was right.
I was exhausted.
My daughter was frightened.
My wife was dead.
My best friend had returned from the grave.
And now I was at the center of a corporate scandal I barely understood.
That evening, I came home to find Abigail sitting at the kitchen table.
She was drawing.
But she wasn't singing.
That worried me.
Abigail usually hummed when she colored.
I sat beside her.
"Hey, sunshine."
"Hi."
"What are you making?"
She slid the paper away.
"Nothing."
I glanced at it.
A little girl stood beside a tall man.
Both were crying.
My chest tightened.
"Want to tell me what's wrong?"
She shook her head.
I waited.
Then she whispered, "Olivia's mom said you're on the news."
I went still.
"What did she say?"
Abigail looked at me.
"She said people think you did something bad."
My throat closed.
I reached for her hand.
"Abigail, listen to me."
She stared at me.
"Did you?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
I almost smiled.
Children ask questions adults are afraid to ask.
"I'm sure."
She nodded slowly.
Then whispered, "Are you going to jail?"
I pulled her into my lap.
"No, baby."
"Not for telling the truth."
She buried her face against my chest.
"I don't want anybody to take you away."
I held her.
"I know."
For a long time, we sat together.
Then she pulled back.
"Daddy?"
"Yeah?"
"Did Mommy do something bad too?"
My heart stopped.
"What?"
"Someone at school said that's why she died."
For one terrible moment, I couldn't speak.
Then I held her face gently.
"Your mommy was a good person."
"The best person I knew."
"She helped people."
"She cared about strangers."
"And nothing anybody says will ever change that."
Abigail's eyes filled.
"Then why did she die?"
I looked at her small face.
There was no answer a seven-year-old deserved.
I kissed her forehead.
"Because somebody made a terrible choice."
She held me tighter.
"And we're going to find out who."
Later that night, after Abigail was asleep, Rebecca called.
Her voice was unusually sharp.
"Blake, we found something in Darlene's access history."
I sat upright.
"What?"
"Her account was used to approve the suspicious transaction."
"I know."
"But the approval came from a workstation that wasn't in her office."
"Where was it?"
Rebecca paused.
"Miranda Cross's workstation."
I closed my eyes.
"Then Miranda did it."
"Not necessarily."
"The workstation was in a shared executive support area."
"Multiple people may have accessed it."
"What about the timestamp?"
Rebecca hesitated.
"That's the strange part."
"The authorization was recorded at 2:17 a.m."
"So?"
"Darlene was out of the country that night."
"Where?"
"London."
I frowned.
"Could someone have used her account remotely?"
"Possibly."
"But the office building's access log places one particular employee on the fiftieth floor at 2:11."
"Who?"
Rebecca's voice lowered.
"Arthur Bellamy."
I gripped the phone.
"Can we prove he accessed the workstation?"
"Not yet."
"But investigators are reviewing the camera footage."
I started pacing.
Then Rebecca said, "There's something else."
"What?"
"Miranda contacted me."
I stopped.
"What did she say?"
"She wants immunity."
My pulse quickened.
"From what?"
Rebecca took a breath.
"She says Arthur forced her to approve false transactions for years."
I closed my eyes.
"Can she prove it?"
"She says she has copies."
"Where is she?"
"She's on her way to a meeting with federal investigators."
A wave of relief moved through me.
Finally.
Someone inside the executive floor was willing to talk.
Then Rebecca's voice changed.
"Wait."
I heard a second phone ringing.
Muffled conversation.
A long silence.
"Rebecca?"
She returned.
"Blake."
"What happened?"
"Miranda didn't arrive."
My stomach dropped.
"Where is she?"
"Her car was found abandoned beside the river."
I went cold.
Then Rebecca said the words I'd been dreading.
May you like
"There's blood on the driver's seat."
"And her phone is missing."
