Chương 8
I almost put it back.
Then I noticed something.
A small tear near the thumb.
I remembered it.
Lucas had cut his hand fixing the fence last summer.
He refused to go to urgent care.
He wrapped it himself and spent the rest of the afternoon complaining that I was treating him like a child.
I smiled.
Then I cried.
Not because of the glove.
Because for a few seconds, he was alive again.
The next morning, I went to Baldwin-Gallagher Logistics.
I had not planned to.
I told myself I was only going to collect information.
But the truth was simpler.
I needed to see what Lucas had left behind.
The building looked smaller than I remembered.
Maybe because Lucas was not walking through the front doors.
Maybe because everything looked smaller after losing someone.
The receptionist looked up.
Her name was Dana.
She had worked there since before I met Lucas.
Her smile disappeared when she saw me.
“Victoria.”
“Hi, Dana.”
She stood quickly.
“I heard what happened.”
I hated those words.
Not because they were wrong.
Because they made me feel like a headline.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes moved to my stomach.
“How are you?”
I almost gave the automatic answer.
I’m okay.
Instead, I said, “I’m getting through the day.”
Dana nodded slowly.
“That sounds more honest.”
Before I could answer, a man walked out of the hallway.
Mark Ellison.
He looked exactly like he always had.
Gray sweater.
Glasses.
A polite expression.
The kind of person everyone trusted because he looked like someone who paid his taxes early.
“Victoria.”
His voice carried concern.
Not surprise.
Concern.
That bothered me.
“I was hoping we could talk.”
I looked at him.
“You left me three voicemails.”
His mouth tightened.
“I was worried.”
“About me?”
A pause.
Small.
But noticeable.
“About everyone.”
There it was.
The shift.
Not you.
Everyone.
I stepped closer.
“Did you meet with my father?”
Mark looked uncomfortable.
“I think we should discuss this privately.”
“No.”
The receptionist glanced up.
Mark lowered his voice.
“Victoria.”
“No.”
I surprised myself.
“No more private conversations where people explain things after they’ve already happened.”
His face changed.
Not anger.
Recognition.
He realized I was no longer the person who sat quietly beside Lucas at company dinners.
“I met with Charles,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“Because he had questions.”
“About what?”
Mark looked around.
“Not here.”
I almost laughed.
“Why does everyone keep saying that?”
Because everyone wanted control of the room.
The place.
The timing.
The version of the truth.
I looked him directly in the eyes.
“My husband wrote your name in a notebook.”
Mark stopped breathing for half a second.
It was brief.
But I saw it.
And suddenly, I knew.
Lucas had been right to be worried.
The question was no longer whether something had happened.
The question was how long everyone had been pretending it had not.
The question was how long everyone had been pretending.
Mark looked past me toward the glass doors of the office.
Employees moved through the lobby carrying folders and coffee cups.
People who had no idea that the company they depended on was being pulled into something they did not understand.
“I don’t think this is the place,” he said.
I looked at him.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“No.”
My voice surprised both of us.
“It’s because you don’t want witnesses.”
The receptionist stopped typing.
Mark’s face hardened for a moment.
Then it disappeared.
A practiced expression returned.
“I’m not your enemy, Victoria.”
I almost believed him.
That was the dangerous part.
People rarely looked like enemies when they were hurting you.
Sometimes they looked tired.
Sometimes they looked concerned.
Sometimes they looked like someone who had known your husband for years.
“What happened to Lucas?” I asked.
Mark swallowed.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Then tell me the truth.”
He looked toward the hallway.
“I can’t do this here.”
I turned away.
“Then don’t.”
I walked toward the exit.
“Victoria.”
I stopped.
Not because he called my name.
Because of the way he said it.
Not like someone trying to stop me.
Like someone afraid of what would happen if I left.
I turned back.
“What?”
Mark lowered his voice.
“Your father is not the only person who wanted access to Lucas’s files.”
The lobby suddenly felt colder.
“Who else?”
He hesitated.
That hesitation told me more than his answer would.
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Who else, Mark?”
He looked at the floor.
“I need to talk to you somewhere private.”
I shook my head.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because Lucas trusted you.”
The words hit him.
His expression changed.
Just slightly.
“I know.”
“Did he?”
Mark looked away.
That was the first honest reaction I had seen from him.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Regret.
“Give me one hour,” he said.
“For what?”
“To explain what I know.”
“And what do I give you?”
He looked confused.
“What?”
“Why would I trust you?”
He had no answer.
That was the point.
Trust was something I had spent years handing out because I wanted to believe people deserved it.
Now I was learning that trust was not kindness.
It was information.
And information had value.
“I’ll contact your attorney,” Mark said.
I almost smiled.
“That’s the first smart thing you’ve said today.”
I left before he could respond.
Outside, the wind had picked up.
I stood beside my car for a moment.
My hands were shaking.
Not because I was afraid of Mark.
Because I was starting to understand the size of what Lucas had been carrying.
I had spent three weeks thinking my husband died and left me with grief.
Now I wondered if he died trying to leave me protection.
On the drive home, I called Samantha.
She answered quickly.
“How did it go?”
“Mark Ellison knows something.”
There was silence.
Not surprise.
Concern.
May you like
“What did he say?”
“He said Charles wasn’t the only person looking for Lucas’s files.”
