Chapter 3 - The Man Declan Trusted Most
My father died when I was fifteen.
Heart attack.
At least that was what I'd been told.
Thomas Cole had been forty-six, annoyingly healthy, incapable of sitting still through an entire movie, and obsessed with the belief that butter was healthier than margarine because “anything invented in a laboratory shouldn't go on toast.”
He ran three miles every morning.
He didn't smoke.
He barely drank.
And on a Tuesday in October, he collapsed in the kitchen before breakfast.
There had never been any mystery around it.
Until Declan asked Sheldon Farris what my father had discovered eighteen years ago.
I stared at both men.
“You knew my father?”
Declan's eyes stayed on Sheldon.
“Not personally.”
“Then why did you ask that?”
No answer.
“Sheldon?”
The older man rubbed one hand over his jaw.
“This conversation is becoming absurd.”
“Did you know Thomas Cole?”
“I knew hundreds of people who worked around your father's industry.”
“That wasn't my question.”
He looked at me.
“Yes.”
The word landed softly.
It still felt like something exploding.
“How?”
“Your father worked for a firm that handled compliance reviews for several companies connected to Patrick Morrow.”
Declan's father.
The founder.
The man whose portrait hung in three Morrow buildings and whose name still made senior employees lower their voices.
“My father was a municipal accountant.”
“That was later.”
I looked toward Declan.
“You knew?”
“Not until tonight.”
“How?”
“Because of the phrase.”
“What phrase?”
“Your father was right about Morrow.”
He walked toward a locked cabinet behind his desk.
Sheldon stepped forward.
“Declan.”
Declan ignored him.
He entered a code.
The cabinet opened.
Inside were several old files.
Actual paper.
Not digital records.
He removed one.
Brown edges.
Faded label.
COLE, THOMAS — 2008.
My entire body went cold.
“You have a file on my father?”
“I didn't know I had it.”
“It's in your safe.”
“It belonged to my father.”
“You've had it for six years.”
“And I've never opened it.”
“How do I know that?”
His eyes met mine.
“You don't.”
Fair answer.
I hated it.
He brought the file toward me.
Sheldon moved again.
“Don't.”
Everyone looked at him.
He realized what he'd done.
Declan's voice dropped.
“Why?”
Sheldon recovered.
“Because Gemma has suffered enough tonight.”
“That's your concern?”
“Of course.”
Declan opened the file.
The first page contained my father's name.
Thomas Edward Cole.
Date of birth.
Employment history.
Photograph.
My chest tightened.
It was an old company-ID picture I had never seen.
He looked younger than I remembered.
Dark hair.
Same crooked smile.
My smile.
There were seventeen pages.
Most were financial reports.
Handwritten notes.
Photocopies.
Then Declan found a letter.
The handwriting belonged to my father.
I recognized it immediately.
Patrick,
If the transfers continue, someone inside your organization is using municipal contracts to build an independent network. I don't believe you're authorizing it.
The structure is deliberate.
If I'm correct, the money isn't leaving Morrow.
Someone is building a second Morrow underneath the first.
I need three more days.
Do not discuss this with anyone except—
The bottom of the page had been torn away.
“Except who?” I whispered.
Declan turned the paper over.
Nothing.
Sheldon stared at the floor.
Declan looked at him.
“You knew.”
“No.”
“You reacted before I opened the cabinet.”
“I knew Patrick kept files.”
“You knew which file.”
“No.”
“Then why tell me not to open it?”
Sheldon's face hardened.
“Because your father destroyed himself chasing ghosts.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“And now you're doing the same.”
Declan's eyes narrowed.
My ribs hurt every time I breathed.
I barely noticed.
“What happened after this letter?” I asked.
Sheldon looked at me.
“Your father became obsessed.”
“My father died.”
“Yes.”
“Three days after writing this?”
He didn't answer.
I looked at the date.
October 12, 2008.
My father died October 15.
Three days.
Exactly.
I stopped breathing for a moment.
Declan crouched near the sofa.
“Gemma.”
“I thought he died on a Tuesday.”
“He did.”
“I remember my mother screaming.”
“Gemma.”
“I remember his coffee mug breaking.”
My hands started shaking.
Declan took the file away from me.
“Enough.”
“No.”
“You need rest.”
“No.”
I reached for the pages.
“I've spent eighteen years thinking my father dropped dead because life was unfair. You're not putting that folder away.”
“Gemma—”
“Don't.”
He stopped.
“Don't protect me by hiding information.”
Something moved in his expression.
Regret, maybe.
“I won't.”
Sheldon turned toward the elevator.
Declan didn't even look at him.
“Where are you going?”
“Home.”
“No.”
Sheldon stopped.
“You cannot detain me.”
Declan finally turned.
“You're right.”
Sheldon looked surprised.
“You're free to leave.”
One of the security men glanced toward Declan.
I knew that look.
So did Sheldon.
It meant leaving probably wasn't the freedom it sounded like.
Sheldon smiled.
“Good.”
“But before you go,” Declan said, “I want the truth.”
“I've told you the truth.”
“Did you speak to two men in the Huron garage tonight?”
“No.”
“Did you know Gemma had the encrypted phone?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“You told me.”
Declan's face changed.
“I told you she was bringing records.”
“You said she was bringing the device.”
“No.”
Sheldon realized it.
Too late.
I remembered the call.
Declan had spoken to me privately.
The encrypted phone wasn't standard.
We had only used it twice.
“Who told you?” I asked.
Sheldon looked at me.
No answer.
Declan stepped closer.
“Who?”
Sheldon laughed softly.
“This organization has more leaks than you understand.”
“Name one.”
“Your people.”
“Which people?”
“You won't believe me.”
“Try.”
Sheldon's gaze moved to me.
“Her.”
I almost laughed.
“Myself?”
“She has had unrestricted access for six weeks.”
“Because I'm auditing you.”
“Exactly.”
“Sheldon,” Declan warned.
But the older man continued.
“You brought an outsider into private systems. She copied sensitive records to a device. Tonight that device conveniently disappears.”
My mouth fell open.
“You think I arranged my own attack?”
“I think nothing should be assumed.”
“My leg is broken.”
“People have done worse for eighteen million dollars.”
The room went still.
Declan's head tilted.
“Eighteen?”
Sheldon blinked.
I looked at him.
Nobody knew the amount.
Not the attackers.
Not Declan.
I had discovered the total forty-one minutes before leaving my office.
$18.6 million.
I hadn't told anyone.
“How much?” Declan asked me.
My voice came out quietly.
“Eighteen-point-six.”
Sheldon said nothing.
Declan stepped toward him.
“How did you know?”
“It was a guess.”
“Very specific guess.”
“Declan—”
“How?”
For the first time that night, Sheldon looked genuinely afraid.
Then the penthouse lights went out.
Complete darkness.
Someone cursed.
I heard a movement near the elevator.
Then the emergency lights activated.
Dim red strips along the floor.
“Sheldon!” Declan shouted.
The elevator display was dead.
The doors remained closed.
The security men moved.
I tried to stand.
Pain exploded through my leg.
“Stay down,” Declan ordered.
“I'm tired of staying down.”
“Tonight you're going to learn.”
A sound came from the hallway.
A door.
Then footsteps.
Running.
One guard disappeared after them.
The other went toward the electrical panel.
Thirty seconds later, the main lights returned.
Sheldon was gone.
Declan stood staring at the open service door.
“Boss,” the guard said from the panel.
“What?”
“This wasn't a power failure.”
“What was it?”
“Remote system shutdown.”
“From where?”
The guard checked the display.
Then looked at us.
“Inside the building.”
I stared toward the hallway Sheldon had used.
Declan took out his phone.
“Lock every exit.”
I grabbed his sleeve.
“He planned this.”
“Maybe.”
“You still think maybe?”
“I think evidence matters.”
“His voice was on the phone.”
“I believe you.”
“He knew the amount.”
“I know.”
“He knew about my missing time.”
“I know.”
“Then why aren't you saying it?”
Declan looked at me.
“Because Sheldon Farris taught me one thing my father never did.”
“What?”
“If the answer looks too easy, someone wants you looking there.”
He turned toward the old file.
Then he picked up the torn letter from my father.
On the back, beneath years of discoloration, something showed through.
Indentations.
Writing from another page that had once rested above it.
Declan angled the paper beneath the lamp.
I could make out three words.
He read them aloud.
“Ask D. Morrow.”
My pulse jumped.
“D?”
Declan's face had gone pale.
“There was only one D. Morrow in the organization in 2008.”
“Who?”
He stared at the letter.
“My brother.”
I frowned.
“You don't have a brother.”
His eyes lifted to mine.
May you like
“I did.”
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