Part 18
“Why was the archive door unsecured?” she asked.
“We don’t know yet.”
“Could Adrian have opened it with my card?”
“Yes.”
“He took the card after I found him in the office.”
“Then someone else opened the archive, or he had the card earlier and returned it before you noticed.”
Claire looked toward the hallway leading to the bedroom.
Her clutch had been on the dressing table while she showered.
Adrian had fastened the clasp himself when they left.
The memory was small, domestic, almost tender. He had kissed the back of her shoulder and told her the silver gown made her look like moonlight. While she searched for an earring, he held the clutch behind her.
A card could be removed and returned in seconds.
“I need to change the locks,” Claire said.
“The locksmith will be here at eight.”
“You arranged that?”
“Malcolm did.”
Claire bristled, then let the irritation pass. “Of course he did.”
Miriam put on her glasses. “You can cancel him.”
“No. Let him come.”
At three in the morning, Claire sat on the kitchen floor eating dry cereal from a coffee mug because every bowl was in the dishwasher.
She had removed the hospital bracelet but could still feel it around her wrist.
Her phone lay facedown beside her. Adrian had stopped messaging. Malcolm had not.
Miriam slept in the guest room after refusing to leave Claire alone. Before going to bed, she had placed a small brass bell on the nightstand.
Claire had laughed despite herself. “What century is this from?”
“The nineteenth, probably. It belongs to your house.”
“You expect me to summon you like a maid?”
“I expect you to throw it at the wall if you need help.”
Now the bell rested upstairs, useless and somehow reassuring.
Claire opened her laptop.
The foundation’s archive database required a secure connection she no longer trusted. Instead, she searched her personal notes. For three weeks, she had been preparing an exhibition proposal about private collecting networks after the Cold War. The Marlowe correspondence had appeared because the Bellweather Collection was included in a list of gifts made through intermediaries.
The official record was clean.
Twelve sculptures. European modernists. Donated by Everett Marlowe, a shipping investor who died in 2004. Accepted by unanimous committee vote in June 1998.
Claire’s notes contained the contradictions.
A handwritten inventory dated two months before the donation listed Marlowe as “temporary custodian.”
A letter from a Zurich dealer asked Daniel Whitmore why the foundation was requesting a retroactive transfer.
A committee calendar showed no meeting on the date listed in the official minutes.
Three pages had disappeared between Tuesday afternoon and Friday evening.
Someone had wanted the file to look less complicated.
That person had expected the missing pages to go unnoticed.
Claire searched her email for Adrian’s name beside “Bellweather” and “Marlowe.” Nothing appeared.
Then she searched his consulting firm.
Vale Strategic had advised the foundation during a donor restructuring two years earlier. Adrian had withdrawn from the project after their relationship became serious, or so he had told her. His firm’s archived invoices were stored in the foundation’s finance portal.
Claire still had access.
One invoice included a line item for “legacy asset risk review.”
Another referenced “BWC documentation remediation.”
She stared at the initials.
Bellweather Collection.
The work had been billed fourteen months after Adrian claimed to have ended his involvement with the foundation.
Claire opened the attached approval sheet.
Her father’s name was not there.
Malcolm’s was.
At six forty, she called him.
He answered on the first ring. “Are you all right?”
“Why did you approve Vale Strategic to review the Bellweather documentation?”
Silence.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Home.”
“Is Miriam with you?”
“Yes.”
“I’ll come over.”
“No. Answer me.”
“I approved several risk reviews after the museum’s insurer changed its requirements.”
“Adrian’s company performed the review.”
“He was not assigned to the account.”
“Who was?”
“I don’t remember.”
“You signed the invoice.”
“I sign hundreds of approvals.”
“Then open it.”
“Claire.”
“Open it.”
He exhaled. She heard movement, then the click of keys.
The pause lasted long enough for anger to replace fatigue.
“The project lead was Simon Rusk,” Malcolm said.
Claire knew the name. Rusk was a senior partner at Vale Strategic and a trustee of two private museums. He had attended the gala but had not been among the six witnesses in the rotunda.
“What did they remediate?”
“The language was administrative.”
“What did they do?”
“I don’t know.”
“You paid them eighty-four thousand dollars.”
“I see that.”
“You signed it.”
“I see that too.”
Claire closed her laptop. “Adrian knew where to look because his firm had already looked.”
“That is possible.”
“No. It is obvious.”
“We do not know what he knew personally.”
“He was in my office with pages missing from the same file.”
“I am not defending him.”
“You are slowing down the sentence until it sounds less terrible.”
Malcolm did not respond.
She pressed her fingers against her forehead. “I need the full report.”
“I’ll have counsel review whether—”
“No.”
“Claire, the report may be privileged.”
“It is a museum record about objects we may not legally own.”
“And releasing it carelessly could damage any chance of resolving claims properly.”
“There are no claims because the people with claims may not know where the objects are.”
“That is an assumption.”
“So was believing my father.”
The words landed. Claire regretted them and did not take them back.
Malcolm’s voice lowered. “I will obtain the report.”
“Today.”
“Yes.”
“And Adrian’s access to every foundation system is revoked.”
“It was revoked last night.”
“His firm’s access too.”
“I’ll order a review.”
“Not an order. Confirmation.”
Another pause.
“You sound like your father,” Malcolm said.
Claire looked at the rain-dim kitchen windows. “That is not comforting anymore.”
May you like
She ended the call.
At eight, the locksmith arrived carrying a red toolbox and apologizing for the traffic. He changed the front and rear locks while Miriam made coffee and read overnight messages from the museum.
