Chương 4
Now I noticed Chase was looking toward the photographer instead of at me.
I put the frame face down in a drawer.
Then I checked the door lock twice and slept for less than three hours.
At five twelve, I woke to someone pounding on the door.
Every muscle in my body tightened.
The pounding came again.
“Whitney.”
Chase.
I sat upright.
“Whitney, open the door.”
I did not move.
My phone was charging beside the bed.
I unplugged it and opened the building security app.
The hallway camera showed Chase outside my unit wearing the same clothes from the night before.
His hair was no longer perfect.
He looked gray with exhaustion.
“Whitney.”
He knocked again, softer this time.
“I just need my things.”
I called building security.
The morning guard, Luis, answered.
I told him Chase no longer had permission to enter my unit and asked him to escort him out.
Luis hesitated.
“Mr. Mercer lives there, though, right?”
“He stayed here.”
There was a pause.
“I need him removed from my floor.”
“Okay.”
Another pause.
“Do you want police?”
“Not unless he refuses.”
Through the app, I watched Chase lean his forehead against my door.
For a moment, he looked so defeated that an old instinct rose in me.
Open the door.
Give him coffee.
Listen.
Fix it.
Then he reached into his jacket and tested the handle.
The instinct died.
“Whitney,” he called, “I know you’re in there.”
I stayed silent.
A minute later, Luis stepped out of the elevator.
They spoke too quietly for the camera microphone to capture everything.
Chase pointed at my door several times.
Luis shook his head.
Chase’s posture changed.
The tired man disappeared.
He shoved one finger toward Luis’s chest without touching him.
Luis did not move.
Eventually Chase walked toward the elevator.
Before stepping inside, he looked directly at the hallway camera.
Then he raised his hand and gave it the middle finger.
I saved the footage.
By seven, I was dressed and sitting at the kitchen island with a legal pad.
I had written four names.
Chase.
Diane.
Martin Bell.
DMC Lifestyle Services.
Underneath, I wrote one question.
Where did the money go?
Mara arrived at seven twenty carrying two coffees and a paper bag from the bakery near our office.
She took one look at me and did not say good morning.
“You look terrible.”
“Thank you.”
“You want the croissant before or after you tell me who I need to hate?”
I almost smiled.
“After.”
She set the bag down.
Mara was forty, practical, impatient, and allergic to dramatic pauses.
She had worked with me since my firm consisted of three people and a borrowed conference room.
She knew my professional strengths.
Unfortunately, she also knew all my personal blind spots.
I told her what happened.
Not everything at first.
I started with the bank card.
Then the blocked doorway.
Then the raised fist.
Mara’s face became very still.
When I described the kick, she closed her eyes briefly.
“Good.”
“It was not exactly elegant.”
“I didn’t ask if it was elegant.”
Then I showed her the account.
She read the transfer list twice.
Her mouth tightened.
“How much total?”
“Eighteen thousand, one hundred fifty-seven dollars and eighty-three cents.”
“Your money?”
“Mostly.”
“Did Chase have authority on the account?”
“Yes.”
“So from the bank’s perspective, those transfers may have been authorized.”
“I know.”
She looked at the ivory folder.
“And this company belongs to his mother.”
“Yes.”
“Do you think the catering invoice is fake?”
“I think the account is connected to Diane.”
“That is not what I asked.”
I looked at her.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“What is good about that?”
“You’re angry enough to stop protecting him.”
The sentence irritated me.
“That’s unfair.”
“Probably.”
She tore the croissant in half.
“I can be unfair and correct at the same time.”
I opened my mouth.
Then closed it.
Mara pushed half the croissant toward me.
“Eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“I have a baby who thinks four in the morning is a social event.”
She bit into her half.
“You are not winning this argument.”
I ate.
The butter tasted like nothing.
At eight fifteen, I called an attorney.
Not the firm’s corporate counsel.
A family lawyer named Rachel Kim whom one of my clients had used during a complicated breakup involving shared property.
Rachel agreed to speak by video at nine.
She listened carefully while I described Chase’s residency in the condo, the engagement, the accounts, and the confrontation.
She asked practical questions that made the situation feel less cinematic and more dangerous.
Did he receive mail there?
Yes.
Was his driver’s license registered there?
I did not know.
Did he pay rent?
No.
Did he contribute regularly to household expenses?
Rarely.
Did he have a key?
Yes.
Did he still have it?
Probably.
Rachel’s expression tightened.
“Change the lock through building management if your association permits it, but do not throw his belongings into the hallway.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
“Good.”
She paused.
“And Whitney, do not meet him alone.”
“I can handle myself.”
“That is not the point.”
I disliked the answer because it sounded sensible.
Rachel continued.
“You have a police incident record now.”
“Yes.”
“If he contacts you, preserve everything.”
“I already am.”
“Of course you are.”
For the first time, she smiled slightly.
“You’re a forensic accountant.”
After the call, I contacted the building manager.
By ten thirty, the electronic access credentials assigned to Chase had been suspended pending review.
The physical deadbolt still needed replacement.
A locksmith was scheduled for noon.
Then I called the wedding planner.
Her name was Celeste Warren, and she answered in a whisper.
“Oh, Whitney, thank God.”
The relief in her voice surprised me.
“What happened?”
“I have been trying to reach you for three days.”
I looked at Mara.
“About what?”
“The catering revision.”
“What revision?”
Celeste went quiet.
“Diane said you approved it.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
May you like
“Approved what?”
“The additional forty-five-thousand-dollar payment.”
