Chapter 3 - The Missing Crate Upstairs
The police arrived forty minutes later.
Camille told them about the break-in.
She did not tell them about the blue pages.
Luca said almost nothing.
When the officers left, dawn had begun whitening the windows.
Camille sat among the scattered books.
“They knew.”
“Yes.”
“They knew before tonight.”
“Yes.”
She looked at Luca.
“Preston.”
Luca didn't answer.
“You think it was him.”
“I think coincidences become expensive when you have too many of them.”
Camille hated how much sense that made.
Preston had met her eleven months earlier.
She had worked at Ashmore and Vance for fourteen months.
Three months.
Was that coincidence too?
She opened her phone.
Twenty-seven messages from Preston.
She called him.
He answered immediately.
“Camille, thank God.”
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“Stay there.”
She ended the call.
Luca drove.
Preston lived in a Garden District townhouse his family had owned for generations.
He opened the door wearing yesterday's shirt.
His face changed when he saw Luca.
“Why is he here?”
“My apartment was searched.”
Preston went pale.
“What?”
“My father's dictionary was stolen.”
“I don't know anything about that.”
Camille watched him.
“Why did you choose that folio?”
“What?”
“For your joke.”
Preston looked away.
“Because everyone was talking about it.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Camille—”
“You knew the inventory number.”
Silence.
Luca remained near the door.
Preston rubbed both hands over his face.
Then something in him collapsed.
“My father told me.”
Camille's stomach dropped.
“Your father?”
“Richard.”
Of course she knew his father's name.
Richard Whitfield served on Ashmore and Vance’s board.
“How much does he know?”
Preston sank into a chair.
“Everything.”
Camille felt sick.
“Did you meet me because of him?”
Preston didn't answer.
That was answer enough.
Eleven months vanished in a second.
The coffee.
The flowers.
The proposal.
Every whispered promise.
“You were supposed to find out what Étienne left you,” Preston said.
Camille slapped him.
The sound cracked through the room.
Preston didn't move.
Luca didn't interfere.
Camille's voice trembled.
“Was any of it real?”
Preston looked at her.
“Yes.”
She laughed once, painfully.
“You don't get to say that.”
“I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you.”
“But you were supposed to lie to me.”
“Yes.”
Camille looked away before he could see her eyes filling.
“What are the blue pages?”
Preston shook his head.
“I don't know. My father has been looking for them for years.”
“Why?”
“Because they prove something.”
“What?”
“I don't know.”
Luca stepped forward.
“You know more.”
Preston looked at him.
For the first time, fear crossed his face.
“My father said the original records would destroy several families.”
“Which families?”
“The Whitfields. The Ashmores. The Vances.”
“And Moreau?”
Preston hesitated.
“Yes.”
Luca showed no reaction.
Camille did.
“So you're protecting yourself too.”
Luca looked at her.
“I don't know what the documents say.”
“Convenient.”
“Yes.”
That simple admission quieted her anger.
Luca continued.
“If they prove my family stole something, then the truth doesn't change because I dislike it.”
Camille studied him.
Preston laughed bitterly.
“You believe him?”
“No,” Camille said. “But at least he hasn't asked me to marry him.”
Preston flinched.
Good.
Camille turned toward the door.
Then Preston spoke.
“Warehouse B.”
She stopped.
“What about it?”
“My father went there last night.”
Luca turned.
“When?”
“After the benefit.”
Camille's heart accelerated.
“Why?”
“I heard him tell someone the crate had to disappear before morning.”
They were already moving.
Warehouse B stood near the river behind a chain-link fence.
Smoke was visible before they reached it.
Camille's heart sank.
Fire crews surrounded the building.
A section of the warehouse had burned during the night.
“Too late,” she whispered.
Luca looked toward the loading docks.
“Maybe not.”
They waited until investigators cleared part of the building.
Because Luca's family held ownership interests, he eventually gained access.
The fire had damaged the east storage wing.
AV-1847-31 had been there.
The crate was blackened.
But not destroyed.
Camille knelt beside it.
Empty.
Then she noticed scratches on the floor.
The crate had been moved before the fire.
She followed the marks.
They ended at a wall.
Camille pressed against the paneling.
Nothing.
Luca examined the floor.
“Here.”
A concealed storage hatch.
Inside was a smaller wooden case.
Camille opened it.
Blue paper.
Dozens of sheets.
Her breath caught.
They had found them.
Except the pages were blank.
Camille lifted one.
Nothing.
“No writing.”
Luca looked closer.
“Your father said don't look at the black ink.”
Camille stared.
Then she understood.
“Because the blue isn't the paper.”
She held a page toward the window.
Faint lines appeared under angled sunlight.
Watermark writing.
Her father had taught her this too.
She changed the angle.
Letters emerged.
Names.
Dates.
Property descriptions.
Transfer numbers.
Then she saw one name.
THIBODEAUX.
Her family.
Camille read further.
The documents described property held in trust after the Civil War, later transferred through a series of fraudulent sales.
Buildings.
Riverfront land.
Warehouses.
A parcel on Royal Street.
She stopped breathing.
Ashmore and Vance.
Luca read over her shoulder.
“Your family owned the building.”
“Part of it.”
“More than part.”
Camille continued.
The trust had been created for several families whose property had been illegally seized or manipulated through forged records generations earlier.
The blue pages were not merely history.
They were evidence.
Then Luca found another document.
Much newer.
Dated nine years earlier.
Étienne's handwriting.
He had traced modern shell companies benefiting from those historic fraudulent transfers.
The Whitfields.
Ashmores.
Vances.
And Moreaus.
Luca went silent.
Camille looked at him.
“Your family too.”
“Yes.”
“What are you going to do?”
Before Luca could answer, a voice came from behind them.
“Nothing.”
Richard Whitfield stood at the entrance.
Two Ashmore and Vance security officers were beside him.
Preston stood several feet behind his father.
His face was pale.
Richard looked at Camille.
“You have no idea what you're holding.”
“I think I do.”
“You're holding two centuries of chaos.”
“No. I'm holding paper.”
Richard smiled sadly.
“You really are Étienne's daughter.”
Camille stood.
“What happened to my father?”
Richard's expression changed.
For eight years Camille had imagined asking that question.
She had expected rage.
Instead, she felt strangely calm.
Richard glanced at Luca.
“Ask the Moreaus.”
Camille turned.
Luca's jaw tightened.
Richard smiled.
“Didn't he tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
Richard looked directly at Camille.
“Your father wasn't alone the night he died.”
Silence.
“Luca Moreau was driving the car.”
Camille slowly turned toward Luca.
He did not deny it.
May you like
And suddenly the man who had promised to protect her looked like the man who had been hiding the biggest secret of all.
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