Chapter 4
"What news?" Julian’s voice turned shrill through the speaker. "Arthur, what did she do?!"
Arthur quietly hung up the receiver.
"What *did* I do, Arthur?" I asked, adrenaline surging through my veins.
"Nothing yet," Arthur said, reaching into his desk drawer and pulling out a heavy manila folder marked *CONTINGENCY: EVELYN THORNE*. "Your grandmother wasn't a fool, Clara. She knew Julian was ambitious. She knew he was ruthless. But toward the end of her life, she realized something worse: Julian wasn't just managing the Reyes settlement. He was embezzling from it."
He tossed the folder open. Bank statements fluttered out.
The ten thousand dollars drawn from Thorne Logistics every month wasn't going to Maya Reyes. Only three thousand was. Julian had altered the offshore escrow instructions three years ago. Seven thousand dollars a month—over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars total—had been diverted directly into a numbered brokerage account under Julian’s personal control.
"He was starving Maya's family while skimming the difference," I breathed.
"Maya finally hired an independent auditor last month," Arthur said. "She realized she was being shortchanged. She tracked Julian down to demand the rest of her family's restitution. When he refused to take her calls, she showed up at your wedding reception."
That was why he looked pale when his phone rang. That was why he ran. Maya hadn't come to steal my husband; she had come to collect a debt from a thief.
"I need to see her," I said, standing up.
"Clara, that's dangerous," Arthur warned. "Julian is desperate. If he realizes Maya is talking to you, he’ll do whatever it takes to cover his tracks."
"He already took four years of my life, Arthur. He doesn't get to take my grandmother's company, too."
By ten that morning, I pulled up outside a roadside motel on the outskirts of Allentown, Pennsylvania. The black SUV was parked crookedly in front of Room 114, mud caked along its wheel wells.
I didn't knock politely. I slammed my fist against the cheap wood.
The door swung open. A woman stood there, her dark hair pulled back into a messy bun, dark circles carved under her eyes. She wore an oversized sweater, clutching a cup of diner coffee.
She stared at me, her eyes dropping to the bridal manicure still fresh on my hands.
"You're Clara," she said, her voice dry.
May you like
"We need to talk about my husband," I said. "And we need to talk about your brother."
***
