Chapter 5 - The Ledger Beneath the Blue Pages
Celeste lived outside Lafayette in a small white house surrounded by pecan trees.
Camille had visited dozens of times.
That evening, it felt unfamiliar.
Celeste opened the door before Camille knocked.
She was seventy-one now.
For the first time, Camille saw not merely her aunt but a woman who had been carrying something heavy for eight years.
Luca remained outside.
Preston had returned to New Orleans.
Camille entered alone.
Celeste sat at the kitchen table.
“Your father made me promise.”
Camille remained standing.
“You lied to me.”
“Yes.”
“For eight years.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To keep you alive.”
Camille almost laughed.
“Everyone keeps saying that.”
Celeste looked at her.
“Because Étienne made the mistake of thinking truth automatically protects good people.”
“What happened at the hotel?”
Celeste folded her hands.
“Your father called me after the crash. He was terrified. He had the blue records, but he said the records weren't enough.”
“Enough for what?”
“To prove the modern fraud.”
Camille sat down.
“He had another ledger.”
“What ledger?”
“Payments. Judges. Appraisers. Attorneys. Shell companies. People who helped keep the old property transfers from being challenged.”
Camille's stomach tightened.
“Where is it?”
“I don't know.”
“Who does?”
Celeste looked toward the window.
“Maybe you.”
Camille frowned.
“Papa's message said the same thing.”
Celeste nodded.
“He told me he'd hidden it somewhere only you would understand.”
“The dictionary?”
“No. That was a decoy.”
Camille thought of her destroyed apartment.
“Then what?”
Celeste looked around the kitchen.
And Camille understood.
Not this kitchen.
Their old kitchen.
The house where she had grown up.
It had been sold after Étienne's death.
Or so she believed.
“Who owns our old house?”
Celeste looked uncomfortable.
“I do.”
Camille stared.
“You told me it was sold.”
“I told everyone it was sold.”
Forty minutes later they were driving toward New Orleans.
The old Thibodeaux house stood in Tremé behind an iron fence.
Dust covered everything.
Camille entered and felt eight years disappear.
There was the hallway where she had measured her height against the wall.
There was the window her father never repaired properly.
And there was the kitchen table.
Still there.
Scarred oak.
One leg slightly shorter.
Camille approached it.
You already have what they’re looking for.
Not a possession.
A memory.
Her father had taught her at this table.
She ran her hand underneath.
Nothing.
Then she remembered something he used to say whenever she complained about difficult handwriting.
If you can't read what's on the page, Camille, look beneath it.
She crouched.
Under the table was a narrow wooden panel.
Her fingers found a latch.
Click.
A hidden compartment opened.
Inside lay a black ledger.
Camille began crying before she touched it.
Eight years.
Her father had hidden the truth beneath the place where he taught her how to read it.
Luca stood in the doorway but didn't approach.
Camille opened the ledger.
Names filled the pages.
Dates.
Amounts.
Transactions.
Then she found Richard Whitfield.
Several payments.
Ashmore executives.
Vance executives.
City officials.
Attorneys.
And Moreau.
Camille looked up.
“Luca.”
He came closer.
She pointed.
ANTHONY MOREAU — $400,000.
Luca's father.
He stared at the entry.
Camille watched him.
“Still want the truth public?”
Luca remained silent for several seconds.
Then he took out his phone.
“Yes.”
He photographed the page.
Camille felt something change inside her.
Not trust.
Not yet.
But the beginning of it.
Then Celeste gasped.
A vehicle had stopped outside.
Camille looked through the curtain.
Dr. Malcolm Pierce stepped out.
Alone.
He approached the house slowly.
Luca moved toward the door.
Camille stopped him.
“No.”
“What?”
“He came alone.”
“That doesn't make him safe.”
“No. But I want to hear him.”
Pierce knocked.
Camille opened the door.
He looked exhausted.
“I need to speak to you.”
“You have five minutes.”
Pierce entered.
His eyes found the ledger.
He closed them.
“Étienne really did hide it.”
“You paid someone to search his hotel room.”
Pierce looked at Camille.
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Did Richard?”
“No.”
“Then who did?”
Pierce sat down.
“Nobody.”
Camille stared.
“Your father's death wasn't murder.”
“Luca said—”
“I said the crash wasn't an accident,” Luca interrupted. “I never said I knew what killed him.”
Pierce nodded.
“The crash was deliberate. Étienne escaped. Six days later, he collapsed.”
“From what?”
“Internal complications from the crash.”
Camille looked at Luca.
His face showed the same shock.
Pierce continued.
“Étienne knew he was dying. He spent those six days making copies, hiding evidence, contacting people.”
Camille's eyes filled.
“Why didn't he come home?”
“Because the people following him were watching you.”
Celeste covered her mouth.
Pierce looked at the ledger.
“I was one of them.”
Silence.
“You followed my father?”
“Yes.”
“For Richard?”
“At first.”
Camille's voice sharpened.
“At first?”
“Then I realized what Étienne had found.”
Pierce looked ashamed.
“I helped him during those final days.”
Camille remembered the $250,000 payment.
“Richard paid you.”
“Yes.”
“To recover the documents?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I gave him a fake folio.”
Luca stared.
Pierce continued.
“I hid the original at Ashmore and Vance because it was the one place Richard would never think I would put it.”
Camille almost laughed at the absurdity.
“You hid it under his nose.”
“For eight years.”
“Why bring it out tonight?”
“I didn't.”
Camille froze.
“Who did?”
Pierce looked toward her.
“Preston.”
The room went silent.
Camille felt a terrible pressure in her chest.
“No.”
“He requested the folio for tonight's appraisal display.”
“Why?”
“I assumed Richard ordered him to.”
Camille remembered Preston's joke.
His wager.
His insistence that she translate it.
What if it hadn't been humiliation alone?
What if he wanted her to see it?
She pulled out her phone.
Three missed calls from Preston.
Then a message.
Camille, I know where the rest of your father's files are. My father knows I told you. Don't come home. Don't trust anyone until I explain.
A second message arrived.
It contained a photograph.
Preston was inside Richard's private office.
Behind him stood shelves of documents.
And on the desk was a letter addressed to Camille in Étienne's handwriting.
Then came a third message.
Only four words.
Someone is at the door.
Camille called.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
May you like
Then Preston's phone went offline.
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