Chapter 3 - The First Payment
Graham read the note three times.
“Eight point four million,” he said. “That was the purchase price for the Easton network.”
Lucy nodded. “My father said it was the first payment. Not the last.”
“Payment for what?”
“For making a report disappear.”
Graham stood. “I need to see the storage unit.”
“You need to stop acting like you can fix everything by calling someone.”
“I’m trying to help.”
“No. You’re trying to take control. There’s a difference.”
The words landed harder than he expected.
Lucy’s friend Maya arrived with a coat and a bag of clean clothes. She gave Graham a look that made it clear he was tolerated, not trusted.
“You can go home,” Maya told him. “We’ll take it from here.”
“I’m not leaving until I know she’s safe.”
Lucy looked at him. “Then do something useful. Find out who had access to the Easton acquisition records. Don’t call Victor. Don’t tell your assistant. And don’t use your company car.”
“Why?”
“Because my father spent twelve years looking over his shoulder. Whoever came into the shop knew exactly when you were there.”
Graham took a cab to the office. The building was mostly dark, but security let him onto the executive floor. His access card worked. His private office did not.
The lock had been changed.
A young security guard apologized. “Mr. Hale said the office was being renovated.”
Graham looked through the glass. His desk was gone. The framed photograph of his first team had disappeared. Even the old brass nameplate had been removed.
He called Victor.
“Why was my office cleared?”
“Because we’re preparing for the board review.”
“Without telling me?”
“You’ve been distracted.”
“I want the original Easton file.”
“Graham, it’s midnight.”
“Then you’ll have it ready in the morning.”
He ended the call and went to the records room. A clerk named Owen Price was still working. Owen looked frightened when Graham asked for the acquisition file.
“I can’t access it,” Owen said. “Mr. Hale locked the archive.”
“Since when?”
“Since your wife’s foundation audit.”
Graham froze. “My wife?”
May you like
Owen glanced at the ceiling camera.
“Mr. Whitmore,” he whispered, “your wife didn’t die in that car accident.”
