Chapter 5 - THE ROOM HIS FATHER LEFT LOCKEDJulian called me at 6:03 p.m.
I almost didn't answer.
Then I remembered what Silas had said about the chairman's suite.
“Norah,” Julian began, “I need you to come to the office.”
“Why?”
“Because I found something.”
“What?”
“Something about my father.”
I closed my eyes.
“Your father's office?”
Silence.
“How do you know about that?”
“Because somebody used his authorization key to access the archive.”
Julian's breathing became shallow.
“Who told you?”
“Silas.”
“Silas is supposed to be investigating this internally.”
“He is.”
“Then why is he giving you confidential records?”
“Because he believes I didn't steal the diamonds.”
Julian didn't answer.
The silence between us was different now. It wasn't the silence of two people who had run out of things to say. It was the silence of two people who were afraid that the next truth might destroy whatever remained.
“I'll meet you at the office,” I said.
“But Norah—”
“I'm not coming home. I'm coming to look at the evidence.”
I arrived at Thorne & Vale shortly after seven.
The building occupied an entire corner of Midtown, its limestone facade illuminated against the darkening sky. I had walked through those revolving doors hundreds of times, often holding Julian's hand, sometimes arguing with him about work, and once carrying takeout because he'd forgotten to eat during a twelve-hour negotiation.
Tonight, the security guard asked for identification.
I showed him my driver's license.
He checked a tablet.
“I'm sorry, Mrs. Thorne. Your access has been revoked.”
“I know.”
He looked embarrassed.
“Mr. Thorne left instructions to escort you upstairs.”
I followed him to the private elevator.
Julian was waiting outside his office.
He looked as though he hadn't slept.
His tie was loose, his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows. A dark shadow had formed beneath his eyes.
For a moment, I wanted to cross the space between us.
Instead, I held out my hand.
“The evidence.”
He looked at it.
Then he gave a short, bitter laugh.
“You sound like a lawyer.”
“I've learned from the best.”
He led me into his office and locked the door.
On his desk lay an old leather folder.
“My father kept this in a safe inside his private suite,” he said. “I had the suite opened this afternoon.”
“You told me it had been sealed.”
“It was.”
“Who opened it?”
“Eleanor had the key.”
I stared at him.
“And you didn't think that was worth mentioning?”
“I didn't know she had it until today.”
He opened the folder.
Inside were printed emails, old financial statements, and a photograph of Richard Thorne standing beside a younger Eleanor at a charity auction.
The photograph had been taken more than twenty years earlier.
On the back, someone had written a date and a name.
Daniel Rusk. 2004.
I looked up.
“Your father knew Rusk.”
“Apparently.”
Julian handed me a letter.
It was written on Richard's personal stationery.
Eleanor insists the discrepancies are temporary. She says the stones are being held as collateral until the creditors are satisfied. I have told her that company property cannot be used to settle private obligations.
The letter ended abruptly.
No signature.
No date beyond the month and year.
I read it again.
“Your father knew the diamonds were being moved.”
“Not necessarily the Briarwood Collection. This was years ago.”
“But the method is the same.”
Julian nodded.
He pulled another page from the folder.
It was a list of fourteen inventory codes.
Fourteen.
The same number as the missing diamonds.
My skin prickled.
“These codes are older than the Briarwood Collection,” he said. “They belong to a set of gemstones that disappeared in 2019.”
“Were they ever recovered?”
“No.”
“Who investigated?”
“My father. Then Eleanor.”
“And what happened?”
“The dealer who handled the collection was dismissed. The loss was recorded as a private settlement.”
I looked at him.
“Was the dealer Daniel Rusk?”
Julian didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The room seemed to tilt around me.
This wasn't one theft.
It was a system that had been operating for years.
And my husband had inherited the company without understanding how much of it had been built on concealed losses.
“Why didn't your father go to the police?” I asked.
Julian stared at the letter.
“I don't know.”
I turned to the final page.
There was a handwritten note in the margin.
If anything happens to me, check the second ledger. Not the one Eleanor keeps.
I read it aloud.
Julian's face drained of color.
“Second ledger?”
“Do you know what it means?”
“No.”
“Then we need to find it.”
He looked at me with something that resembled desperation.
“Norah, I want you to know that I never believed you would steal from me.”
I held his gaze.
“You ordered three men to search me.”
“I was trying to stop the board from calling the police before we had the facts.”
“You could have stopped them by telling them you trusted me.”
“I was afraid.”
“So was I.”
He took a step toward me.
“I was afraid that if I defended you and the evidence turned against us, I would lose the company and you.”
I shook my head.
“You didn't lose me because of the evidence, Julian. You lost me because you made your fear more important than my dignity.”
His eyes shone.
He reached for my hand.
I stepped back.
“I can't promise to forgive you.”
“I know.”
“But I'll help find the truth.”
He nodded.
Together, we searched the documents until nearly midnight.
Then Julian found a small brass key taped beneath the folder's inner lining.
A paper tag hung from it.
LEDGER ROOM — B-17.
I knew the designation.
B-17 wasn't a room in the main building.
It was a storage unit in the company's old archive facility beneath a converted warehouse in Long Island City.
The facility had been decommissioned after a flood six years earlier.
According to company records, everything inside had been transferred or destroyed.
But someone had kept a key.
And someone had wanted Julian to find it.
We left the office separately.
At 12:26 a.m., Silas called.
“I checked the archive facility records,” he said. “Unit B-17 was accessed three days ago.”
“By whom?”
“An authorized contractor.”
“Name?”
“Daniel Rusk.”
I stopped walking.
Then Silas added one more detail.
“He wasn't alone.”
“Who was with him?”
The answer came in a whisper.
“Richard Thorne.”
May you like
My husband's dead father had been photographed entering a building three days earlier.
And whoever was wearing his face had just given us our next destination.
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