Chapter 2: The Missing File
“Don’t touch your laptop.””
Evelyn’s voice was so calm that it frightened me more than if she had shouted.
“What happened?”” I asked.
She held the phone away from her ear.
“Your company’s IT director just called me.””
My stomach dropped.
“Why?””
“He asked whether you were with me.””
The kitchen suddenly felt too small.
My son's chest rose and fell in the bassinet beside me.
I looked at my hands.
“They know I'm here?””
“They know you're not home.””
“That isn't an answer.””
“No,” Evelyn said.
“It isn't.””
She put the phone on speaker.
“Tell me again,” she said.
“Exactly what you told me.””
A man's voice came through, tight and hurried.
“This is Martin. Head of IT at Halston Group.””
I knew Martin.
I'd sat in his office twice during internal audits.
He was the kind of man who never used ten words when seven would do.
“What happened to my laptop?”” I asked.
There was a pause.
“Your credentials were used at 4:11 this morning.””
I stared at Evelyn.
“That’s impossible.””
“I know.””
“My laptop was at home.””
“Was it?””
“Yes.””
“Are you certain?””
“I left it in the study.””
Another pause.
Then Martin said, “Your account accessed a restricted directory at 4:11.””
“Which directory?””
He hesitated.
“Vendor settlements.””
I felt a cold line move down my back.
“That folder isn't under my current permissions.””
“It shouldn't be.””
“What was accessed?””
“We're still pulling the logs.””
“Then why are you calling me?””
“Because at 4:17, someone deleted the access history.””
Evelyn's expression hardened.
I whispered, “Deleted by whom?””
“We don't know yet.””
“Then how do you know it was my account?””
“We traced the authentication token.””
“Could someone clone it?””
“Yes.””
“Could someone use my password?””
“Yes.””
“Did they?””
“I don't know.””
I stood so quickly the chair legs scraped against the floor.
My son stirred.
I froze.
For two seconds, nobody spoke.
Then Martin lowered his voice.
“Roz, there's something else.””
“What?””
“The system shows a second action under your credentials.””
“What action?””
“A file transfer.””
“To where?””
“We're trying to determine that.””
My heart began beating harder.
“Martin.””
“Yes?””
“Was it a copy of the payment file?””
He went silent.
That was answer enough.
I looked at Evelyn.
She was already standing.
“End the call,” she said.
I frowned.
“What?””
“Tell him you'll call him back.””
I did.
“Martin, don't access anything further until I contact you.””
“Why?””
“Because I need to know whether this is contained.””
He breathed out slowly.
“Roz, I think someone is trying to make it look like you stole something.””
The call ended.
Silence filled the kitchen.
My son made a little sucking sound in his sleep.
I sat back down.
“He's framing me.””
Evelyn didn't answer.
“Say it.””
“He may be.””
“You think he is.””
“I think someone wants you away from that company before you can look at something.””
I stared at the yellow legal pad.
TIMELINE.
EVIDENCE.
EXIT.
My mouth felt dry.
“Daniel knew I was leaving the house.””
“Yes.””
“He knew I'd taken the folder.””
“Yes.””
“He knew I'd go to you.””
“Yes.””
I looked up.
“But how would he know I'd bring the old audit file?””
Evelyn's expression changed.
“You brought it?””
I nodded.
“It was in the document folder.””
She held out her hand.
“Show me.””
I pulled the folder from my suitcase.
The papers inside were exactly where I'd left them.
Tax schedules.
Vendor lists.
Internal correspondence.
And the payment I'd flagged.
I spread the documents across the counter.
Evelyn leaned over them.
“Which one?””
I pulled a page from the middle.
The invoice was from a company called Northbridge Advisory.
The amount was $480,000.
The description read:
STRATEGIC CONSULTING — Q4 OPERATIONS.
I had circled the payment months earlier.
No contract.
No statement of work.
No deliverables.
No employee record.
No procurement trail.
Just a payment.
And Daniel's father's signature.
Evelyn tapped the page.
“Who received it?””
“Northbridge.””
“Who owns Northbridge?””
“I couldn't confirm.””
“You couldn't?””
“I tried.””
“What stopped you?””
I remembered that afternoon.
Daniel had appeared in my office without knocking.
He'd shut the door.
Then he'd stood between me and the window.
“You're digging too hard,” he'd said.
I'd laughed.
“That's literally my job.””
“Not with this.””
“Why?””
“Because my father's handling it.””
“That isn't a reason.””
“It is for you.””
I'd looked at him.
“What does that mean?””
He'd leaned against my desk.
“You're my wife.””
I remembered the exact way he'd said it.
Not affectionate.
Not reassuring.
Possessive.
Like my access card.
Like my signature.
Like the company.
Evelyn was still staring at me.
“What did he say?””
I swallowed.
“He told me not to ask again.””
“Did you?””
“No.””
“Why?””
“Because three weeks later I found out I was pregnant.””
Evelyn's face softened for the first time.
“And you decided it wasn't worth the fight.””
“No.””
I looked at the invoice.
“I decided I had bigger problems.””
“That's different.””
A floorboard creaked somewhere upstairs.
I looked toward the hallway.
Evelyn heard it too.
“Is someone here?”” I whispered.
She shook her head.
“The back door is locked.””
Another sound.
A faint metallic click.
Then silence.
Evelyn picked up her phone.
“Stay here.””
She moved toward the hall.
I stood.
“No.””
“Roz.””
“If someone followed me, I'm not sitting here alone.””
She looked at me for a second.
Then nodded.
We walked together through the narrow hallway.
Nothing.
Living room empty.
Front door locked.
Back door locked.
No windows open.
Evelyn checked the alarm.
Still armed.
She turned to me.
“Probably the radiator.””
“Probably.””
Neither of us believed it.
We went back to the kitchen.
My son was awake.
His eyes were open, unfocused, his tiny mouth trembling.
I picked him up.
He settled against my chest almost immediately.
And that was when my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I stared at the screen.
Evelyn said, “Don't answer.””
It stopped.
Then buzzed again.
This time there was a message.
I opened it.
One sentence.
YOU SHOULD HAVE STAYED HOME.
My fingers went cold.
A second message arrived.
DON'T OPEN THE BLUE FILE.
I looked at the documents on the counter.
There was no blue file.
At least, I didn't think there was.
Evelyn read the message over my shoulder.
Her face had gone completely still.
“What?”” I asked.
She pointed to the folder.
I followed her finger.
At the very bottom was a thin blue tab.
I hadn't noticed it before.
I pulled it free.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Not an invoice.
Not an audit report.
A photocopy of a bank transfer.
My eyes moved down the page.
Sender: Halston Group Holdings.
Recipient: Northbridge Advisory LLC.
Amount: $480,000.
Date: October 14.
Then I saw the authorization line.
Authorized by:
Daniel Mercer.
Not his father.
Daniel.
My husband.
I read it twice.
“No.””
Evelyn reached for the paper.
“Give me that.””
I handed it over.
She studied the signature.
“Have you seen this before?””
“No.””
“Are you sure?””
“Yes.””
She turned the page over.
Nothing.
Then she held it up to the light.
“There's writing underneath.””
“What?””
She tilted the paper.
Very faint pencil marks showed through.
Evelyn took a photograph.
Then another.
She adjusted the angle.
A sequence of numbers appeared.
“Those are transaction references,” she said.
“To what?””
She zoomed in.
Her mouth parted slightly.
“Another account.””
I stepped closer.
“Whose?””
“I don't know.””
She enlarged the image.
There was an account number.
And beneath it, six words.
BENEFICIARY: R. MERCER TRUST.
I stared at the screen.
“Mercer.””
Daniel's family name.
My husband's family name.
Evelyn's eyes met mine.
“Roz.””
“What?””
“The trust was created eleven years ago.””
“So?””
“So you're not the beneficiary.””
I frowned.
“Then who is?””
She looked back at the screen.
“No.””
“What?””
“You need to hear this from the bank.””
“Evelyn.””
She finally looked at me.
“The trust beneficiary isn't Daniel.””
My pulse hammered.
“Then who?””
Before she could answer, someone knocked on the front door.
Three slow knocks.
We both froze.
Another three.
My son began to cry.
Evelyn grabbed my wrist.
“Don't move.””
The knocking came again.
And then a man's voice drifted through the door.
“Mrs. Mercer?””
I knew that voice.
It belonged to Robert Mercer.
Daniel's father.
May you like
And he said the next sentence so quietly that I almost wished I hadn't heard it.
“We need to talk about what you took.””
