Chapter 4 - The Woman Who Raised Me
Margaret Ellis had taught me how to tie my shoes.
She had taught me how to answer a business phone, how to write a thank-you note, and how to recognize when someone was lying in a meeting.
When Mom died, Margaret brought meals to our house for three straight weeks.
When Dad worked late, she picked me up from school.
When I got accepted to Northwestern, she cried harder than anyone at the dinner table.
And when I told her Ethan had proposed, she hugged me so tightly I could barely breathe.
Now I was staring at proof that she had been communicating with the people who wanted to destroy us.
“Where is she?” I asked.
Adrian shook his head.
“Her phone has been turned off since this morning.”
“Did you tell Nora?”
“Before you got here.”
I stood.
“I need to find her.”
“Claire, you need to be careful.”
“Everyone keeps telling me that.”
“Because you're walking into something that started long before you met Ethan.”
I stopped at the door.
“What do you mean?”
He glanced toward the hallway.
“Your father hired me once.”
I turned around.
“What?”
“Eleven months ago. About two weeks before he died.”
I stared.
“You worked for Dad?”
“Briefly.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because the contract included a confidentiality clause, and I didn't have enough evidence to justify breaking it until now.”
Anger surged through me.
“You watched me grieve him. You watched me blame myself.”
“I know.”
“You knew he was afraid someone was trying to kill him?”
“I knew he suspected a financial crime. I didn't know about the medical records until last week.”
I wanted to shout.
I wanted to throw something.
Instead, I asked the only question that mattered.
“What did he hire you to investigate?”
Adrian looked down.
“An internal program called Project Lantern.”
I had never heard the name.
“What was it?”
“I don't know yet. But your father believed someone was using it to move money out of Hartwell.”
“That sounds like the transfers Ethan made.”
“Those transfers started after your father's death.”
My skin prickled.
“Then someone was stealing before Ethan.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Adrian hesitated.
“That's what your father wanted me to discover.”
I drove home with two police officers following me.
The house felt wrong the moment I opened the door.
Ethan's expensive shoes sat beside the entryway.
His leather jacket hung near the stairs.
Our engagement photographs lined the hallway.
Everywhere I looked, I saw evidence of a life that had been carefully manufactured to trap me.
I walked straight to the living room.
Above the fireplace hung a large photograph of Dad and me standing outside Hartwell's headquarters.
It had been taken on my twenty-fifth birthday.
Dad was laughing.
I was holding a ridiculous cake shaped like a surgical robot.
He had insisted on ordering it himself.
I touched the frame.
“What were you trying to tell me?”
My phone rang.
Margaret.
I answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
Silence.
Then her familiar voice.
“Claire, are you alone?”
“No.”
“Are the police with you?”
“Outside.”
She released a shaky breath.
“Good.”
I gripped the phone.
“Margaret, I know about the Coles.”
Another silence.
Longer this time.
“I was hoping you wouldn't find out like this.”
“Then tell me how I was supposed to find out.”
“Not over the phone.”
“Dad knew someone was trying to hurt him. You knew too.”
Her breath caught.
“Claire—”
“Did you help them?”
“No.”
“Did you lie to me?”
“Yes.”
The admission nearly knocked the air from my chest.
I pressed my free hand against the wall.
“Why?”
“Because your father asked me to.”
I closed my eyes.
“Don't use him to excuse yourself.”
“I'm not.”
“Then explain.”
“There's a storage box in your father's study. The old wooden desk. Bottom drawer.”
I looked toward the hallway.
“What's in it?”
“A letter.”
“From you?”
“From him.”
My heart jumped.
“Why didn't you give it to me?”
“Because he told me not to unless something happened.”
“Something did happen. He died.”
Margaret began crying.
“Not that, Claire.”
The room seemed to shrink.
“What do you mean?”
“He said if the Coles came for you, I should give you the letter.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“You introduced me to Ethan.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought I could keep him close enough to protect you.”
I laughed once.
It sounded ugly.
“He hit me, Margaret.”
“I saw.”
“He was planning to steal my company.”
“I know.”
“Then you failed.”
Her sob came through the speaker.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I did.”
Before I could respond, I heard a noise on her end.
A car door.
A man speaking.
Margaret's voice changed.
“Claire, listen carefully. The letter isn't enough. You need the ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Your father hid it where nobody would think to look.”
“Where?”
“Under the first thing he ever built for you.”
A muffled sound interrupted her.
Then a man's voice.
“Margaret, put the phone down.”
She whispered one final sentence.
“Don't trust the man who says he's helping you.”
The call ended.
I ran to Dad's study.
The wooden desk stood beneath the window.
He'd bought it used when Hartwell was still a tiny business operating out of a rented garage.
The bottom drawer was locked.
I knew where he kept the key.
Inside a hollow chess piece on the bookshelf.
Dad had told me about the hiding place when I was ten.
Back then, it held chocolate.
Now it held a small brass key.
I unlocked the drawer.
Inside were old tax folders, faded photographs, and a sealed envelope.
My name appeared across the front.
CLAIRE.
His handwriting.
My hands trembled as I opened it.
Sweetheart,
If Margaret has given you this letter, then something has gone terribly wrong.
I need you to understand one thing before you read anything else.
I did not build Hartwell to make you wealthy.
I built it because your mother believed that people deserved medical care that didn't bankrupt their families.
Somewhere along the way, I allowed people into our company who cared more about money than patients.
I was too slow to see what they were doing.
And when I confronted them, they threatened you.
I stopped reading.
My eyes burned.
For months, I had imagined Dad's final thoughts.
Had he been frightened?
Had he been in pain?
Had he wondered whether I loved him?
Now I knew he had been thinking about protecting me.
I forced myself to continue.
Project Lantern was supposed to provide affordable surgical equipment to small hospitals.
Someone turned it into a vehicle for fraud.
The board is compromised.
The company records are compromised.
And the people responsible have convinced themselves that they can make the evidence disappear.
They cannot.
I left a copy of the original records outside the company's systems.
You'll know where to look.
You were seven when you asked me why the first machine I built for you had a crooked wheel.
I told you that making something imperfect was better than being afraid to try.
That machine is still waiting for you.
I love you, sweetheart.
Whatever happens, remember that you do not owe anyone your silence.
Dad.
I lowered the letter.
The first thing he ever built for me.
A miniature robot made from aluminum scraps.
It had one crooked wheel and a painted yellow face.
I had named it Benny.
Dad kept it in his office for decades.
After his death, Miriam insisted the contents of his office be inventoried and transferred to storage.
But Benny hadn't gone to storage.
Margaret had brought him to me in a cardboard box.
I knew exactly where he was.
On the top shelf of my bedroom closet.
I ran upstairs.
Opened the closet.
Pulled down the box.
And froze.
It was empty.
Benny was gone.
In his place lay a folded note.
May you like
The handwriting was Ethan's.
LOOKING FOR SOMETHING, SWEETHEART?
