Chương 11
For a second, the lobby seemed to tilt around me.
Adrian was saying my name, but I raised one hand without looking at him.
“Martin?”
“Yes.”
Margaret’s voice had lost its usual dryness.
“Are you certain?”
“Review counsel has the incorporation records.”
“Maybe there’s another Martin Shaw.”
“There isn’t.”
I turned toward the glass doors.
Outside, the tiny white dog in the sweater was still circling the courtyard as if the world had remained entirely reasonable.
“What does Wexler Holdings own?”
“Very little publicly.”
“And the brokerage account?”
“Counsel has confirmed transfers into it from Northline.”
“How much?”
“Just over ninety thousand dollars.”
I closed my eyes.
Adrian stepped closer.
“What happened?”
I moved away from him.
Margaret continued.
“They’re still tracing the rest.”
“Does Martin know they found it?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Who does?”
“Independent counsel, two directors, Elena, and me because the trust is a party to the review.”
“And now me.”
“Yes.”
I looked at Adrian.
His face had gone still.
I had spent half my life watching that expression form before hostile negotiations.
He knew something was wrong.
“Margaret, I need to tell Adrian.”
“No.”
“He’s standing three feet away.”
“That doesn’t change my answer.”
“He could walk into Martin’s office tonight.”
“Exactly.”
I pressed my fingers against my forehead.
“What do you want me to do, pretend everything is normal?”
“I want you to say nothing until counsel speaks with Martin.”
“When?”
“They’re trying to locate him now.”
“Locate him?”
“He left the office after the board meeting.”
My stomach dropped.
“His phone?”
“Going directly to voicemail.”
I looked at the time.
“Has anyone checked his house?”
“Counsel is not law enforcement.”
“His wife?”
“Divorced.”
I had forgotten.
Martin’s divorce had happened quietly four years earlier, buried beneath language about growing apart.
Adrian had attended the hearing with him.
I had sent food to Martin’s apartment because he once admitted he had eaten cereal for dinner eleven nights in a row.
“His daughter?”
“Claire.”
“I know.”
I stopped.
“We wait.”
“Yes.”
I hung up.
Adrian stared at me.
“What happened?”
“I can’t tell you yet.”
His expression hardened immediately.
“You can’t tell me.”
“Not yet.”
“You were just told something about my company.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m not allowed to know.”
“I’m asking you to trust the process.”
He laughed once.
“That phrase has become very popular this week.”
“I know.”
“Is it Vanessa?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Daniel?”
I said nothing.
“Claire.”
“Stop.”
His voice rose.
“Was money stolen?”
The doorman glanced over.
I lowered my voice.
“I don’t know.”
“You know something.”
“Yes.”
“About me?”
“No.”
That answer came too fast.
Adrian noticed.
His eyes narrowed.
“Then it’s somebody else.”
I should have said nothing.
Silence answered for me.
He took a step back.
“Who?”
“I’m not doing this.”
“Martin?”
My face betrayed me.
It must have.
Adrian went completely still.
“No.”
I felt anger at myself, at him, at the ridiculous intimacy that meant after twenty-three years he could still read the smallest change in my expression.
“Adrian.”
“No.”
He pulled out his phone.
I grabbed his wrist before I thought about it.
“Don’t call him.”
He stared at my hand.
I let go.
“What did they find?”
“I cannot tell you.”
“You just did.”
“No.”
“You did.”
He was already scrolling.
I stepped in front of him.
“Margaret said counsel is trying to speak with him first.”
“Why?”
“I can’t—”
“Why?”
“Because whatever they found needs to be verified.”
“Then it isn’t verified.”
“Part of it is.”
His face changed.
“What part?”
I looked away.
That was enough.
“Jesus Christ.”
He called Martin.
The phone went directly to voicemail.
Adrian called again.
Same result.
He sent a message.
Then another.
“What are you writing?”
He ignored me.
“Adrian.”
“He always answers me.”
“Apparently not today.”
“He always answers.”
The sentence came out quieter.
I had never heard fear in Adrian’s voice when speaking about Martin.
Not even when Martin had collapsed from dehydration during a charity bike ride seven years earlier and spent a night in the hospital.
Then, Adrian had been annoyed by everybody’s panic because Martin was conscious and complaining about hospital coffee.
Now the fear had nowhere to hide.
“What did they find?” he asked again.
I looked at him.
“A brokerage account controlled by an LLC connected to Martin received money from Northline.”
His face emptied.
“How much?”
“Ninety thousand that they’ve traced so far.”
He sat down on the nearest lobby chair.
For several seconds, he simply looked at the floor.
“That’s impossible.”
“I thought you said you wanted facts.”
“I do.”
“That is a fact.”
“No.”
He looked up.
“Martin wouldn’t do that.”
“You don’t know what he would do.”
“I know him.”
“So did I.”
“Not like I do.”
There was no arrogance in it this time.
Only desperation.
Adrian and Martin had met at Northwestern when they were twenty.
They had shared a terrible apartment, founded Whitmore together, nearly bankrupted it twice, and celebrated every successful fund with the same bottle of bourbon nobody actually liked.
Martin had stood beside Adrian at our wedding.
He had held Noah before my mother did and reminded us of that fact for years.
People liked to say business partnerships were marriages.
I had always thought that was a stupid comparison.
Standing there, I understood why people used it anyway.
Adrian called him a third time.
Voicemail.
“I’m going to his place.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t get to tell me that.”
“If counsel is trying to question him, you showing up could look like interference.”
“I don’t care how it looks.”
“You should.”
“I care whether he’s okay.”
That stopped me.
Not whether he was guilty.
Whether he was okay.
“Then call his daughter.”
He already had.
She did not answer.
Adrian stood.
“I’m going.”
“Wait.”
“For what?”
“For people whose job this is to do their jobs.”
“He’s my friend.”
“And you’re under review.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
May you like
“Maybe you should.”
His face flashed with anger.
