Chương 9
I paid cash.
Serena opened her door wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon avocados and holding a wooden spoon.
Her first words were, “You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
Then she saw Lily.
Her face changed.
“What happened?”
“Long story.”
“Does it involve police?”
“Maybe.”
“Do I need pants?”
“No.”
“Good.”
That was Serena.
We had met at community college and remained friends mostly because neither of us had enough energy to manufacture a better personality for the other.
She let us in without another question.
Her house smelled like garlic, laundry detergent, and whatever her husband had burned earlier.
One of her sons was asleep on the couch under a blanket with a video game controller still in his hand.
The dog looked at us from the hallway and sneezed.
Lily whispered, “Can I pet him?”
“He might fart,” Serena said.
Lily immediately loved him.
Serena waited until Lily disappeared upstairs with her younger son before turning to me.
“All right.”
She pointed the spoon at my face.
“Who are we hiding from?”
“I don't know.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No.”
“Ex-boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Landlord?”
“No.”
“Mafia?”
I stared at her.
She lowered the spoon.
“Oh, come on.”
“It isn't exactly—”
“Anna.”
“I worked for Moretti Group.”
“You worked for the mafia?”
“I worked in corporate compliance.”
“That is somehow funnier.”
“I got fired.”
“I know that part.”
“My daughter went to confront Dominic Moretti.”
Serena blinked.
“Your six-year-old?”
“Yes.”
“Today?”
“Yes.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
She put the spoon down.
“I need wine.”
“You don't even drink.”
“I might start.”
I told her enough to explain why we were there and not enough to drag her fully into it.
She listened with her arms crossed.
When I finished, she said, “You need police.”
“Maybe.”
“You said maybe already.”
“I have evidence of corporate fraud from eleven years ago, letters somebody intercepted, an employment agreement I forgot mattered, and an anonymous threat that doesn't actually say they're coming after me.”
“It says you should have let it stay buried.”
“Yes.”
“That is a threat.”
“It is vague.”
“People with normal hobbies don't send vague threats at midnight.”
She had a point.
I sat at her kitchen table.
A bowl of overripe bananas occupied the center beside a pile of unopened school mail.
Serena poured me water.
“You're doing that thing,” she said.
“What thing?”
“Where you turn terror into paperwork.”
“I don't do that.”
“You alphabetized your husband's hospital bills.”
“They needed organizing.”
“He was in surgery.”
“I couldn't help with surgery.”
Her face softened.
I hated when she did that.
“I need to know what happened before I go to police,” I said.
“No, you want to know what happened.”
“There is a difference.”
“Yes.”
She sat across from me.
“Need keeps you safe.”
“Want gets you into basements with men named Vinny.”
“His name was Vincent.”
“I was making a general point.”
My phone vibrated.
A message from Dominic.
The number that texted you was activated this morning with prepaid service.
No subscriber identity yet.
Then another message.
Marco found footage of Pike leaving through the loading level at 3:52.
I typed back.
Alone?
Dominic replied immediately.
No.
A photograph followed.
The image showed Elliot Pike walking beside a woman in a dark coat.
Her face was partly turned toward the security camera.
I enlarged it.
My stomach dropped.
Serena leaned over.
“You know her?”
I did.
For eight years, Cynthia Vale had been Moretti Group's vice president of Human Resources.
She had signed my original hiring paperwork.
She had also been the person who handed Elliot Pike my termination packet and watched while he told me my position had been eliminated.
My phone rang before I could answer Dominic.
I picked up.
“You recognize her,” he said.
“Yes.”
“Cynthia Vale.”
“Yes.”
“I just checked her access history.”
“And?”
“She opened your personnel record seven times in the last month.”
I looked at the shoebox inside my tote.
“Why?”
“That isn't the worst part.”
“What is?”
“She also opened my father's restricted succession files.”
My pulse slowed in that unnatural way fear sometimes caused.
“When?”
“Two days before your termination.”
“What was she looking for?”
“We don't know.”
“Dominic.”
“I know.”
“No, listen.”
I pulled the employment agreement from the tote.
There was a clause I had skipped earlier because it seemed administrative.
“Designated successor,” I said.
“Yes.”
“It says Vincent Moretti or designated successor.”
“I heard you.”
“What if that successor wasn't automatically you?”
Silence.
I found the next page.
The agreement had a reference number in the lower corner.
VM-SP-17.
“What does SP mean?”
Dominic took too long to answer.
“Succession protocol.”
My skin prickled.
“You knew.”
“I recognized the format after you sent the photograph.”
“And you didn't tell me.”
“I didn't know what it meant yet.”
“That's not the same thing.”
“No.”
I stood so quickly the chair scraped across Serena's floor.
“What is a succession protocol?”
“Private directives my father prepared before major surgeries and later before his death.”
“What kind of directives?”
“Company control.”
“Trusts?”
“Yes.”
“Appointments?”
“Yes.”
“Protected employees?”
“Possibly.”
I almost laughed.
“There it is.”
“Anna.”
“Who was Vincent's designated successor on SP-17?”
“I don't know.”
“You're lying.”
“I am not.”
“Then why are you scared?”
The line went quiet.
When Dominic finally spoke, his voice had lost every trace of executive calm.
“Because SP-17 is one of the succession files Cynthia accessed.”
I gripped the agreement.
“And?”
“And according to our archive index, it was removed from my father's private safe three years ago.”
“By whom?”
“The authorization record has one signature.”
I already knew the answer before he said it.
“Elliot Pike.”
For several seconds I heard only Serena's refrigerator humming behind me.
“Elliot removed it after Vincent died?”
“Yes.”
“With authority?”
“The record says executive retrieval.”
“Was Elliot an executive?”
“Not one with access to my father's private safe.”
“Then why did nobody question it?”
Dominic gave a small, bitter laugh.
May you like
“Because the authorization carries my signature.”
I stopped breathing.
