Chương 14
That mattered.
I looked at the code again.
“You aren't trying to control it?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if my father created something for you, it isn't mine.”
The answer was immediate.
It made me trust him by perhaps half an inch.
Half an inch was irritatingly more than zero.
I returned to the spreadsheet.
There was another hidden-looking tab at the bottom labeled NOTES.
I said, “There is one more sheet.”
“Anna.”
“I am not clicking an executable file.”
“That's not what I—”
I opened it.
The first row contained a name.
MARTIN REESE.
Dominic stopped speaking.
“You know him.”
“Yes.”
“Who is he?”
“My father's personal attorney.”
“Is?”
“Was.”
“Dead?”
“No.”
“Then where is he?”
“Connecticut, last I knew.”
“When did he leave Moretti?”
“Two months before my father died.”
“Why?”
“He didn't say.”
The notes beneath Reese's name were fragmented.
SP-17 duplicate retained.
Original compromised.
C.V. asking questions.
Do not use corporate mail.
Carter letters redirected.
One delivered.
Awaiting contact.
I felt the blood leave my face.
“Dominic.”
“Read it.”
I did.
When I finished, he said, “Martin knew.”
“Yes.”
“He knew the letters were being intercepted.”
“Yes.”
“And he got one through.”
“The twenty-seventh.”
“Yes.”
Serena crossed her arms.
“So call Martin.”
Dominic heard her.
“She's right.”
“That may be the first useful thing a Moretti has said tonight,” Serena called.
I searched Martin Reese's name online.
A law office appeared in Greenwich.
No personal number.
No late-night contact.
Then I noticed a line at the bottom of the spreadsheet.
MR contact backup.
Beside it was a phone number.
Connecticut area code.
My thumb hovered over it.
Dominic said, “Wait until morning.”
“Why?”
“Because we don't know who controls that number now.”
“Then why put it there?”
“Whoever built this file expected you to make choices.”
I looked at the scheduled email again.
Someone had assembled a path.
Not enough to explain.
Enough to lead.
“Who made the spreadsheet?” I asked.
“I don't know.”
“Could Martin?”
“Yes.”
“Could Cynthia?”
“Yes.”
“Could Elliot?”
“Yes.”
“That is useless.”
“It is incomplete.”
“Same result.”
I looked at the metadata.
The file creator field was blank.
Last modified three weeks ago.
Then I saw something in the workbook properties.
Company.
Moretti Group.
Author.
J. Mercer.
“Who is J. Mercer?”
Dominic didn't answer.
“Dominic?”
“I know the name.”
“Who?”
“Janet Mercer.”
“And?”
“She worked in my father's executive office.”
“Worked?”
“She retired four years ago.”
“Can we contact her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“She died last winter.”
The kitchen went quiet.
There was no dramatic answer waiting after that.
Just a dead woman whose name had survived inside a spreadsheet.
“What did she do for Vincent?” I asked.
“Everything.”
“That is not a job description.”
“It was with my father.”
“Did she handle correspondence?”
“Yes.”
The letters on the table seemed to change weight.
“She could have intercepted them.”
“She could have.”
“Or known who did.”
“Yes.”
“Did you trust her?”
Dominic took longer than I expected.
“I did.”
Past tense carried more than death.
“What aren't you saying?”
“Janet was the person who told me my father was becoming paranoid.”
“When?”
“The last year of his life.”
“Was he?”
“I thought so.”
“And now?”
Another pause.
“Now I think somebody may have been giving him reasons.”
The sentence settled into me slowly.
Vincent accusing people of withholding information.
His private files disappearing.
His lawyer leaving.
His assistant calling him paranoid.
My letters being redirected.
Different pieces of the same ugly machinery.
“Dominic.”
“Yes?”
“Why would Janet build this file if she was helping them?”
“She may not have been.”
“Then why tell you Vincent was paranoid?”
“Maybe she believed it.”
“Or wanted you to.”
“Yes.”
He sounded tired now.
Not physically.
The exhaustion of having old memories become unreliable.
I understood that feeling too well.
Serena checked the time.
“You two can dismantle corporate America tomorrow.”
She pointed upstairs.
“Your kid is going to wake up at six because children are terrorists.”
Dominic heard that too.
“For once, your friend is correct.”
“Twice,” Serena said.
“Let's not inflate the record.”
I closed the laptop.
The act felt harder than it should have.
“There is one thing I need before morning,” I said.
“What?”
“Martin Reese.”
“Don't call the spreadsheet number.”
“I won't.”
“I can have Marco search public records.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I want somebody outside your company to find him.”
“The attorney.”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
That was becoming his answer whenever I chose something he couldn't control.
I liked it more than I wanted to.
“We meet at nine,” I said.
“Not Moretti property.”
“No.”
“Not someone your family owns.”
His voice hardened.
“My family doesn't own attorneys.”
Serena made a face.
I almost did too.
“Fine.”
“Anna.”
“What?”
“If anything else arrives tonight, don't answer it.”
“I won't.”
“And if anyone comes to the house—”
“You don't know where I am.”
“No.”
“Keep it that way.”
“I intend to.”
We hung up.
Serena locked the back door, checked the front door, then checked both again.
I slept badly on her couch.
At 3:17, the dog climbed onto my feet.
At 4:02, someone drove past with music loud enough to shake the windows.
At 5:11, I woke from a dream in which twenty-seven unopened envelopes were stacked inside a coffin.
By six, I had given up.
Lily came downstairs at 6:23 wearing Serena's son's oversized T-shirt and one sock.
“Are pancakes still allowed?”
“Yes.”
“Even grounded?”
“Yes.”
She nodded as if justice had prevailed.
While Serena made breakfast, I opened my phone.
There was one new message.
Not anonymous.
Not Dominic.
The number matched the backup contact for Martin Reese.
It had arrived at 5:58.
Anna Carter, if you still have Vincent's signed agreement, do not give the original to Dominic.
A second message followed.
His father did not name Dominic as the successor in SP-17.
Then a third.
He named you.
For a full second I thought I had misunderstood the words.
Then I read them again.
May you like
He named you.
Serena noticed my face before I said anything.
