Chapter 7 - The Fire in Brighton
The Brighton archive was already burning when we arrived.
Flames licked through the rear windows of the converted warehouse while black smoke rolled across the parking lot.
Fire engines screamed toward us from two blocks away.
Police had beaten us there by less than a minute.
Reid tried to get out of the car.
An officer shoved him back.
“Nobody goes inside.”
“There are servers in there.”
“There’s fire in there.”
I stared through the windshield.
A black SUV sat near the loading dock.
William’s.
But he wasn’t the person police pulled from behind the building.
It was Elliot.
His hands were zip-tied behind him.
Blood ran from his forehead.
He was laughing.
Actually laughing.
Reid got out despite the officer.
“You did this?”
Elliot looked at him.
“Which part?”
“The fire.”
“Ask your family.”
He looked at me.
“Hello, Nora.”
I had never hated anyone so calmly.
“Where’s William?”
Elliot smiled.
“Good question.”
Police searched the building perimeter.
No William.
His SUV was empty.
Then firefighters found another vehicle behind the warehouse.
Camille’s.
She had disappeared from police protection thirty minutes earlier.
I turned toward Margaret.
“You said she was safe.”
“She was.”
Apparently Camille had received a text from William.
If you want the original documents, come alone.
She went.
Of course she did.
For eleven years, Camille’s worst quality had not been dishonesty.
It had been the belief that she could fix disasters by herself after helping create them.
A firefighter emerged carrying a metal case.
Then another.
The archive’s fire suppression system had activated before the flames reached the secure storage room.
The originals survived.
William’s plan hadn’t.
Elliot stopped smiling.
Police searched his pockets.
They found two passports.
Cash.
A storage key.
And a USB drive.
What they didn’t find was William.
Or Camille.
Then my phone rang.
Camille.
I answered.
“Nora.”
Her voice was shaking.
“Where are you?”
“I’m sorry.”
“Where are you?”
“I thought I could get him to give me the originals.”
“Camille.”
“He has a gun.”
Everything around me stopped.
“Are you with William?”
“Yes.”
Reid heard.
He moved closer.
I put the call on speaker.
“Tell me where.”
“I don’t know. He put me in the back of a car.”
William’s voice appeared faintly.
“Give me the phone.”
Camille whispered, “No.”
A slap.
I flinched.
Then William spoke.
“Nora.”
“Uncle William.”
“Funny weekend.”
Police were already tracing the call.
I kept him talking.
“What do you want?”
“Your father.”
“You spent months trying to destroy him. Why would you want him now?”
“Because Charles has something I need.”
“What?”
“Control.”
I understood.
The forged transaction had failed.
Elliot was arrested.
The archive survived.
William had lost every path to Bennett Capital except direct coercion.
“You think Dad will sign something because you have Camille?”
William laughed.
“No.”
My heart sank.
“I think he’ll sign because I have you.”
Reid grabbed my arm.
I frowned.
William continued.
“Look beneath your car.”
A police officer shouted for everyone to move.
They pulled us away.
Bomb technicians arrived.
There was no explosive.
Instead, taped beneath the car was a GPS tracker.
William had been following us.
“You don’t have me,” I said.
“Not yet.”
The call ended.
That night, the police moved my parents and me to a secure hotel.
Reid was given a separate room.
At 2:00 a.m., I couldn’t sleep.
I found him sitting in the hallway outside my door.
“What are you doing?”
“Being paranoid.”
“You’re good at it.”
He almost smiled.
I sat across from him.
For several minutes, neither spoke.
Then I asked the question I had avoided.
“Did you ever intend to leave me for Camille?”
“No.”
“Did you tell her you would?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Cowardice.”
I appreciated the absence of excuses.
“She wanted something from me. I wanted somewhere to hide from everything I’d screwed up.”
“So you used her.”
“Yes.”
“And me.”
His eyes lifted.
“Yes.”
That answer hurt more because it was true.
“I loved you,” I said.
“I know.”
“No. I don’t think you do.”
He looked at me.
“I loved you enough that when something felt wrong, I assumed I was the problem. When you stopped coming home early, I thought I was demanding. When you guarded your phone, I told myself CEOs had confidential messages. When Camille defended you, I thought I was lucky my best friend liked my fiancé.”
My voice cracked.
“You turned my trust into evidence against my instincts.”
Reid looked down.
“I know.”
“That’s what I don’t know how to forgive.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“Good.”
Silence.
Then he said, “I loved you too.”
“Poorly.”
“Yes.”
It was the most painful agreement of my life.
At 3:17 a.m., my father knocked.
Police had found Camille.
Alive.
William had abandoned her near the harbor after realizing Elliot was in custody.
She had a fractured cheekbone and bruised ribs.
She also had something else.
A voice recording.
Before William took her phone, Camille had activated a backup recorder hidden in her purse.
He had spent twenty-three minutes ranting.
About my father.
About the firm.
About the signatures.
About Elliot.
About Northstar.
Everything.
By sunrise, federal agents had enough for warrants.
They raided William’s home.
His office.
His investment fund.
Three storage units.
William was gone.
But his escape route wasn’t difficult to predict.
He had booked a charter flight from Providence under another name.
Police headed south.
At 8:40 a.m., my father received a text.
Not from William.
From a number we didn’t recognize.
It contained a photograph.
William sitting in a private aircraft.
Newspaper in hand.
Alive.
Underneath:
You were looking in the wrong airport.
Then another message appeared.
Tell Nora her husband knows where I’m going.
Every person in the room turned toward Reid.
He went still.
I stared at him.
“Do you?”
He didn’t answer.
My heart sank.
“Reid.”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
He looked toward the police officers.
Then at me.
“Switzerland.”
Dad swore.
“How do you know?”
“Because six months ago, I opened an account there.”
The room went silent.
I stood.
“For who?”
Reid’s answer was barely audible.
“For Camille and me.”
May you like
And just when I thought I had finally reached the bottom of his betrayal, my husband opened another door beneath my feet.
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