Chapter 4 - The Secret Hidden Inside His House
By sunrise, Michael Trent had called Desmond fourteen times.
Desmond answered none of them.
The head of Hayes security believed Beatrice had disappeared.
They intended to keep it that way.
Beatrice stood beside the townhouse windows holding black coffee.
“You need to go to the office.”
Desmond looked up from the dining table.
“And leave you here?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Michael will realize something’s wrong if you disappear too.”
“He already knows something’s wrong.”
“But he doesn’t know what.”
She was right.
Desmond hated that she seemed determined to become more correct as the night continued.
“What exactly are you suggesting?”
“You go to work.”
“And you?”
“Stay missing.”
“For how long?”
“Until Michael makes his next move.”
Desmond considered it.
A trap built around absence.
Not bad.
“Your assistant is going to ask where I am,” Beatrice said.
“You are my assistant.”
“Exactly. Which means everyone will ask you.”
“What should I tell them?”
Beatrice almost smiled.
“That we had an argument.”
“We did.”
“Perfect.”
“About?”
“My performance.”
“Your performance is exceptional.”
For once, Beatrice had no response.
Desmond realized what he had said.
He looked down at his coffee.
“Professionally.”
“Of course.”
Silence.
Something unspoken lingered.
Then Beatrice cleared her throat.
“Make it believable.”
“How?”
“Look angry.”
“I am angry.”
“At me.”
“That’s not difficult.”
“Wonderful.”
Desmond returned to Hayes Tower at 8:10 a.m.
Michael Trent intercepted him before he reached the elevator.
“Boss.”
Michael looked exhausted.
Good performance.
Desmond wondered how many times the man had lied directly to him during the past eight months.
“Any word?” Desmond asked.
“No.”
“Find her.”
“We’re trying.”
“Try harder.”
Michael nodded.
“Do you know why she left?”
Desmond pressed the elevator button.
“She lied to me.”
That part was true.
Michael’s eyes sharpened almost imperceptibly.
“About what?”
Desmond looked at him.
Michael lowered his gaze.
“Sorry.”
The elevator doors opened.
Before entering, Desmond said, “No one contacts police.”
“Understood.”
“Nothing leaves this building.”
“Yes, sir.”
Desmond stepped inside.
The doors closed.
He immediately texted Beatrice using the secure device.
He asked what you lied about.
Her response appeared.
Too fast.
Exactly.
Michael was fishing.
By noon, the office had transformed into a quiet pressure chamber.
Executives whispered.
Security teams searched.
Adrian Kessler entered Desmond’s office at 12:35.
The older lawyer closed the door.
“Where is Miss Gallagher?”
“No idea.”
Adrian studied him.
“That's unusual.”
“Is it?”
“She practically manages your life.”
Desmond said nothing.
Adrian sat.
“Did something happen?”
“We argued.”
“About?”
“Since when do you care about my personal disagreements?”
“Since the woman involved became important to the stability of this company.”
Desmond watched him.
Patrick Gallagher's ledger haunted the space between them.
Did Adrian know?
Had he known Patrick?
Of course.
Thirty years earlier, they had worked under the same roof.
“How well did you know Beatrice’s father?”
Adrian’s expression barely shifted.
“Patrick Gallagher?”
“You remember him.”
“Of course.”
“How did he die?”
“Car accident.”
“So I’ve heard.”
Adrian leaned back.
“What is this about?”
“Curiosity.”
“You were never curious about Patrick Gallagher before.”
“I am now.”
Adrian’s expression became unreadable.
“He was a brilliant accountant.”
“And?”
“And nervous.”
“About what?”
“Everything.”
The answer came too quickly.
Desmond knew it.
Adrian knew he knew it.
For a second, neither man moved.
Then Adrian smiled.
“You look tired.”
“I had a long night.”
“Apparently.”
Adrian stood.
“Find Miss Gallagher.”
“I intend to.”
When he left, Desmond waited ten seconds.
Then opened the bottom drawer of his father’s old desk.
He had inherited the desk after Walter’s death.
Inside were family documents Desmond rarely touched.
One photograph caught his attention.
A charity dinner.
1998.
Walter Hayes stood in the middle.
Adrian Kessler beside him.
Daniel Sloane on the other side.
And behind them—
Patrick Gallagher.
Desmond removed the photograph.
Something was written on the back.
Four names.
Four.
Not three.
Walter.
Adrian.
Daniel.
Patrick.
Desmond stared.
Beatrice believed her father had merely tracked ownership.
What if Patrick Gallagher had been one of the owners?
He photographed the image and sent it to her.
Seconds later she called.
“You said phones stay silent.”
“Look at the picture.”
Silence.
Then Beatrice whispered, “Where did you find this?”
“My father's desk.”
Another pause.
“My father never told me.”
“There’s writing on the back.”
“I see it.”
“Four names.”
She said nothing.
“Beatrice.”
“I need to check something.”
“What?”
“My apartment.”
“No.”
“There’s something hidden there.”
“It’s compromised.”
“I know.”
“Then you're not going.”
“Desmond—”
“No.”
“You don't get to—”
“I absolutely get to stop you from walking into a building watched by Rourke.”
Silence.
Then Beatrice spoke carefully.
“My father gave me a jewelry box before he died. There was a false panel underneath. I never knew what it was for.”
“What’s inside?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why go?”
“Because maybe I was looking at the wrong part.”
Desmond looked at the photograph again.
“I’ll get it.”
“No.”
“My men—”
“Which men? Michael Trent?”
Good point.
Desmond rubbed his forehead.
“Stay there.”
He returned to Beatrice’s building after sunset.
No entourage.
No visible security.
Her apartment door showed no signs of forced entry.
Inside, everything looked normal.
Too normal.
He found the wooden jewelry box inside her bedroom closet.
Mahogany.
Small.
Old.
Desmond pressed the false panel.
It opened.
Empty.
Then he noticed that the panel itself was unusually thick.
He removed two tiny screws.
Inside was a folded piece of paper.
One sentence.
THE FOURTH OWNER WAS NEVER ME.
Below it:
B.G. MUST NEVER KNOW UNTIL SHE IS SAFE.
Desmond stared.
Patrick Gallagher had written it.
He recognized the initials.
B.G.
Beatrice Gallagher.
Then a noise came from the hallway.
Desmond turned.
Someone was entering the apartment.
He slipped behind the partially open bedroom door.
Footsteps.
Slow.
Confident.
A man entered.
Not Michael.
Not Rourke.
Adrian Kessler.
Desmond watched his father's oldest friend walk directly toward Beatrice’s closet.
Adrian did not search.
He knew exactly where the jewelry box was.
And in that moment, Desmond understood that Beatrice had been right about one thing from the beginning.
The rot was not near his house.
May you like
It had helped build it.
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