Chapter 7 - THE SECRET MY FATHER KEPT
My father was sitting in his favorite chair when I walked into my parents' house at 10:14 that night.
He had a book open on his lap.
He wasn't reading it.
I knew because the page hadn't moved since I'd entered.
“Dad.”
He looked up.
“Claire.”
“Why did you contact Northbridge?”
His expression changed.
My mother stood in the kitchen doorway.
“What?”
I looked at my father.
“Three weeks before the wedding, you warned my investors someone was trying to force me to sell.”
He closed the book.
Slowly.
Then removed his glasses.
“Who told you?”
“Julian.”
He nodded.
I felt anger rising.
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“And you didn't tell me?”
“I was trying to verify what I'd heard.”
“What had you heard?”
He looked toward my mother.
Then back at me.
“That Evan was in financial trouble.”
I stared.
“What kind of trouble?”
My father stood.
“Sit down, sweetheart.”
“No.”
He sighed.
“Please.”
I sat because my legs were shaking.
My father had spent thirty-eight years working in accounting.
He was cautious.
Methodical.
The kind of man who kept receipts from vacations we'd taken when I was twelve.
Three weeks earlier, an old colleague had contacted him about a company called Mercer Strategic Consulting.
The colleague worked in commercial lending.
He'd noticed Evan's name on documents connected to a proposed financing arrangement.
The arrangement involved intellectual property belonging to Whitmore House.
My father had been alarmed.
“He wasn't authorized to pledge your company's assets,” Dad said.
“No.”
“I knew that.”
“Then why didn't you tell me?”
“I confronted him.”
I stared.
“You what?”
“Evan came here for dinner while you were traveling. I asked him about the documents.”
My heart pounded.
“What did he say?”
“He told me it was a misunderstanding.”
“Of course he did.”
“He said he was helping you explore financing options.”
I closed my eyes.
“And you believed him?”
“No.”
My father looked exhausted.
“I asked for proof. He promised to send it.”
“Did he?”
“No.”
I stood.
“Then why didn't you call me?”
“Because he told me you were under enormous pressure, and I didn't want to accuse your fiancé without evidence.”
I stared at him.
He looked away.
“I made a mistake.”
Those four words stopped me.
My father wasn't a man who defended himself with excuses.
He was a man who admitted errors.
Even painful ones.
“I should have told you immediately,” he said. “I'm sorry.”
My anger didn't disappear.
But it changed shape.
“What happened next?”
“I contacted Northbridge's legal department and asked them to examine any unusual financing documents connected to your company.”
“And Julian?”
“He called me two days later.”
I felt sick.
“So you knew him before the wedding?”
“Yes.”
“Did he know about Evan?”
“He knew Evan was involved in the documents. He didn't know about the affair.”
I looked toward my mother.
“Did you know?”
She shook her head.
“Not until tonight.”
My father continued.
“I was going to tell you after I received confirmation.”
I laughed bitterly.
“After the wedding?”
He looked down.
“Yes.”
I turned away.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then my father said, “Claire, there's something else.”
I closed my eyes.
“Of course there is.”
He walked to his desk.
Opened a drawer.
Removed a sealed envelope.
“I received this four days before the wedding.”
He handed it to me.
Inside was a photograph.
Evan.
Brooke.
Ryan Bellamy.
The three of them were sitting together at a restaurant.
The photograph was dated six weeks earlier.
I stared.
“Who sent this?”
“There was no return address.”
“Did you ask Evan about it?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
“He said they were discussing a marketing opportunity.”
I looked at my father.
“And you believed that?”
“No.”
I examined the photograph again.
Brooke sat between the two men.
Her hand rested on Evan's arm.
Ryan was smiling.
Something about the image bothered me.
Not the intimacy.
Not the betrayal.
The setting.
I recognized the restaurant.
The private dining room at the Halcyon Club.
I'd attended a fashion industry dinner there the previous winter.
I remembered the dark wood walls.
The green velvet chairs.
The distinctive brass lamps.
And I remembered something else.
The Halcyon Club had strict rules about photography.
No phones at private business dinners.
No unauthorized pictures.
I looked at my father.
“Whoever took this was inside the room.”
He nodded.
“That's what I thought.”
“Why would someone send it to you?”
“I don't know.”
I examined the photograph more closely.
There were four glasses on the table.
Four place settings.
But only three people appeared in the picture.
Someone had been sitting opposite them.
Someone close enough to take the photograph.
My phone rang.
Julian.
I answered.
“Claire, where are you?”
“At my parents' house.”
“Good. Stay there.”
His tone made my stomach tighten.
“What happened?”
“Priya finished examining the files Brooke provided.”
“And?”
“The forged financial forecast wasn't created by Evan.”
I gripped the phone.
“Who created it?”
“We don't have a verified author yet. But the document history points to a workstation associated with Bellamy Holdings.”
“Ryan?”
“Possibly.”
I stared at the photograph.
Julian continued.
“There's something else. The file contains comments from an earlier draft.”
“What comments?”
“One references a person identified only by the initials M.W.”
My heart stopped.
M.W.
Margaret Whitmore.
My mother.
I looked slowly toward the kitchen.
She was standing beside the sink.
Watching me.
Julian's voice sounded far away.
“Claire, I need you to tell me whether anyone else in your family has those initials.”
I couldn't speak.
Then my mother said quietly, “What's wrong?”
I looked at her.
May you like
And suddenly, I remembered something I'd forgotten for years.
Before she married my father, my mother had worked for the Bellamy family.
