Chapter 3 - MY SISTER’S NAME WAS IN HIS LEDGERRebecca did not answer again.
Claire called eleven times.
Voicemail.
Damian did not tell her to calm down.
That was probably why she did not lose control.
He stood beside the conference table while Malcolm coordinated with police.
“Last known location?”
Claire rubbed one hand over her forehead.
“Her apartment in Somerville.”
“Job?”
“Bookkeeper.”
“Company?”
“Three.”
Damian frowned.
“She works three jobs?”
“Rebecca works half of three jobs and somehow creates four emergencies.”
He almost smiled.
“Names.”
“Harbor Youth Initiative. A dental office. Freelance.”
Damian’s expression changed at the first.
“What?”
“Harbor Youth.”
“You know it?”
“My foundation funds it.”
Claire stared.
“How much?”
“About four million annually.”
Cold moved down her back.
“What does Rebecca do there?”
“Accounts payable.”
Claire looked at Damian.
“Which means if money was moving…”
“She might have seen it.”
They went to Somerville with Boston police.
Claire insisted on police.
Damian’s first instinct had obviously been otherwise.
She saw it in Malcolm’s face.
But Damian nodded.
“Police first.”
That surprised everyone except Claire.
Rebecca’s apartment showed no obvious signs of violence.
No blood.
No broken furniture.
Her laptop was gone.
So was a small overnight bag.
Her passport remained.
That suggested she had left quickly but not internationally.
Claire opened the refrigerator.
Half a carton of milk.
Takeout.
Three energy drinks.
Normal Rebecca.
Then she saw an envelope taped beneath the kitchen table.
Her name was written across it.
CLAIRE ONLY.
The detective photographed it before allowing her to open it.
Inside were six pages of financial records.
Payments.
Northline Medical Logistics.
Boston Harbor Civic Renewal.
Shaw Consulting.
Crosswell Development.
Claire did not understand most of it.
Damian did.
His face changed as he read.
“This is internal.”
“Your internal?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
He added mentally.
“Thirty-one million.”
Claire stared.
“Missing?”
“Redirected.”
“Difference?”
“Missing suggests nobody knows where it went.”
He tapped one line.
“This went somewhere very specific.”
“Where?”
“Companies owned through trusts.”
“Whose?”
He turned the page.
His jaw tightened.
“Sebastian Cross.”
Claire knew the name.
Damian’s uncle.
Vice chairman of Crosswell Development.
The man newspapers described as the respectable Cross.
Silver hair.
Harvard.
Charity boards.
Never photographed near men with guns.
“Your uncle is stealing from you?”
“Maybe.”
“Thirty-one million is a large maybe.”
Damian kept reading.
Another name appeared repeatedly.
Congressman Thomas Hale.
The same man Claire had seen being avoided by the woman near the orchestra.
Public infrastructure grants.
Development incentives.
Port improvement funds.
Claire understood enough.
“Public money.”
“Yes.”
“Being routed through your companies.”
“Yes.”
“Into your uncle’s.”
“Possibly.”
“Which makes you look like the criminal.”
Damian looked at her.
“I am a criminal.”
The bluntness stopped her.
He continued.
“That does not mean I committed this one.”
Fair.
Claire looked through Rebecca’s note.
One line at the bottom:
JULIAN FOUND IT FIRST. HE TOLD ME NOT TO CALL CLAIRE UNTIL HE COULD GET ME OUT.
Damian read over her shoulder.
Malcolm said:
“Julian could have written that.”
Claire shook her head.
“This is Rebecca’s handwriting.”
“Could’ve been forced.”
“Possible.”
Damian looked at her.
“You don’t believe it.”
“I don’t know what I believe.”
That answer seemed to matter to him.
Most people around Damian apparently chose certainty quickly.
Claire had spent four years in combat medicine learning certainty was frequently a luxury granted after autopsy.
The detective found another item.
A receipt.
Private storage facility in Charlestown.
Unit 316.
Rented by Rebecca three weeks earlier.
They obtained access with a warrant.
Inside sat one metal filing cabinet.
A duffel bag.
And Julian Shaw.
Alive.
Barely.
Claire ran to him.
He had been shot through the side.
Probably six hours earlier.
Pale.
Tachycardic.
Still conscious enough to recognize her.
“Claire.”
“Don’t talk.”
“Rebecca.”
“Where?”
“Safe.”
“Where?”
He grabbed her sleeve.
“Not Cross security.”
Malcolm heard.
His face hardened.
Julian continued.
“Not all of them.”
Claire looked toward Damian.
That landed badly.
She treated Julian until EMS arrived.
The bullet had passed through soft tissue but bleeding remained significant.
While paramedics prepared transport, Julian whispered:
“Damian.”
Damian crouched beside him.
His face was different now.
Not boss.
Friend.
“What happened?”
Julian’s mouth twisted.
“Your uncle finally realized I was auditing him.”
Damian became still.
“You were auditing Sebastian?”
“For six months.”
“Without telling me.”
“You would’ve confronted him.”
“Yes.”
“Exactly.”
Claire almost smiled despite everything.
Apparently everyone understood Damian’s temperament except Damian.
Julian coughed.
“Rebecca found the transfers accidentally.”
“What transfers?”
“Harbor Youth invoices.”
“Who contacted her?”
“Me.”
Rebecca had not been stealing.
She had been helping Julian trace payments.
Every month, Harbor Youth Initiative paid fake consulting invoices.
Small enough individually to avoid attention.
Across multiple nonprofits and Cross subsidiaries, millions accumulated.
Sebastian’s network then moved the money into redevelopment entities tied to Congressman Hale.
Political bribes disguised as consulting.
Kickbacks.
And something else.
Julian looked at Damian.
“Medical.”
Damian frowned.
“What?”
“Northline.”
Claire looked toward him.
Her clinic supplier.
Northline Medical Logistics delivered medication and equipment to Crosswell Clinic.
Julian continued.
“Fake patients.”
Claire stopped breathing.
“Robert Lane.”
“Yes.”
“How many?”
“Forty-three identities.”
Her stomach turned.
Dead people.
Fake names.
Men requiring treatment off-books.
Someone had been using Crosswell Clinic as a medical safe house without Damian knowing.
“Why?”
Damian asked.
Julian swallowed.
“Sebastian built his own crews.”
Silence.
A private faction inside Damian’s organization.
Men loyal to his uncle.
Treated in Damian’s clinic.
Financed through Damian’s charities.
Protected by Damian’s companies.
If authorities discovered it, everything pointed to Damian.
Claire whispered:
“He’s building a case against you.”
Julian nodded.
“Not just legal.”
“Then what?”
“Succession.”
Damian’s face hardened.
The Cross family’s legitimate businesses were controlled through a trust.
Damian held executive authority because his late father had named him successor.
If Damian died or was convicted of certain offenses, Sebastian temporarily assumed control.
Claire understood.
“The poison tonight.”
“Yes.”
Julian closed his eyes.
“If Damian dies, Sebastian wins.”
Damian’s voice went cold.
“If I’m arrested?”
“Sebastian wins.”
“And if I retaliate violently?”
Julian almost laughed despite his wound.
“He wins faster.”
That was the trap.
Every outcome depended on Damian behaving like the man everyone believed he was.
Violent.
Impulsive.
Criminal enough to remove himself.
Claire watched him process that.
Then asked the question nobody else did.
“Where is Rebecca?”
Julian looked at her.
“I moved her before the gala.”
“Where?”
“She has the original ledger.”
“Where?”
His eyes shifted toward Malcolm.
Malcolm stiffened.
Julian whispered:
“Only Damian.”
Everyone understood.
Damian leaned closer.
Julian gave him an address.
Not loud enough for anyone else.
Then he whispered one more sentence.
Claire barely heard it.
Damian did.
His face changed completely.
“What did he say?”
Claire asked.
Damian stood.
“Nothing.”
Julian was transported.
Claire stared at Damian.
“Do not do that.”
“What?”
“Turn into the man who decides information is dangerous for everyone else.”
His eyes hardened.
For several seconds, neither moved.
Then Damian said:
“Julian thinks Sebastian killed my brother.”
Claire stopped breathing.
Damian’s older brother, Michael Cross, had died twelve years earlier in what newspapers called a boating accident.
Damian had inherited everything afterward.
Claire suddenly understood why his face had gone empty.
“Evidence?”
“Rebecca apparently found a payment.”
“To who?”
Damian looked toward the storage-unit door.
“To the man who inspected Michael’s boat.”
Silence.
Then Malcolm’s phone rang.
He answered.
His expression changed.
“Boss.”
“What?”
“The police detail outside Rebecca’s safe location just went dark.”
Claire’s heart stopped.
“What does that mean?”
Malcolm looked at her.
“It means whoever wants that ledger knows exactly where your sister is.”
And for the first time that night, Damian Cross looked genuinely afraid.
May you like
Not for his empire.
For the woman standing beside him who had just realized her sister might pay for a war she never knew existed.
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