Chapter 2 - The Number That Didn't Belong
Lydia didn't touch the document.
She stared at it as though paper itself had suddenly become dangerous.
“Twenty-four thousand?”
Roman nodded.
“My father said two hundred forty.”
“I know.”
“Carter Voss said two hundred forty.”
“I know that too.”
Lydia's eyes narrowed.
“You seem to know an irritating amount of things.”
“One of my less charming qualities.”
“I haven't found the charming ones yet.”
Roman's mouth almost moved.
Almost.
She pointed toward the paper.
“Explain.”
Roman opened the document.
It wasn't a contract.
It was a ledger.
Dates.
Amounts.
Initials.
Transfers.
Gary Bennett's name appeared several times.
Lydia recognized his signature immediately.
The total at the bottom read:
$24,380.
Her stomach turned.
“What is this?”
“Tyler's private ledger.”
“You stole it?”
“I acquired it.”
“That's criminal-person language for stole it.”
“Probably.”
Roman didn't seem embarrassed.
Lydia rubbed one hand across her forehead.
“Then why did my father believe he owed $240,000?”
Roman's gaze settled on her.
“That is the interesting question.”
Lydia read the page again.
Gary's debts were miserable but believable.
Three thousand.
Five thousand.
A few payments.
Then another loss.
Exactly the kind of destructive cycle she had watched for years.
But nowhere did the number reach two hundred forty thousand.
Roman flipped to another sheet.
At the top was an account code.
GB-114.
Below it:
240,000.
Lydia frowned.
“That's him?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“Because this account existed three years before your father ever played at one of Voss's tables.”
Her head lifted.
“Then somebody attached his name to it.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Roman didn't answer immediately.
Lydia recognized the hesitation.
“You know.”
“I have a theory.”
“Tell me.”
“Carter Voss doesn't need your father's money.”
“Then why threaten him?”
“He wasn't after Gary.”
Roman's eyes met hers.
“He was after you.”
Lydia laughed.
It came out sharp and humorless.
“That's ridiculous. I'm an assistant manager for a catering company. I have fourteen dollars in cash in my purse and my apartment window faces a brick wall.”
“You have something else.”
“What?”
Roman's gaze went toward her hands again.
She immediately curled them.
“Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking at my hands like they're evidence.”
“They may be.”
Lydia's irritation faded.
“What does that mean?”
Roman leaned forward.
“Where did you learn restoration?”
She went still.
“What?”
“Your hands.”
Again.
He gestured toward her fingers.
“Small cuts near the index finger. Fine abrasion around the thumb. A trace of archival adhesive beneath one nail.”
Lydia stared at him.
“You're insane.”
“You restore paper.”
She said nothing.
Roman had hit too close.
Lydia worked full-time managing events because restoration didn't pay her rent.
But at night she sometimes helped a retired conservator named Margaret Hale repair old documents, maps, letters, and books.
She loved it.
Old paper didn't lie.
People did.
“You've been watching me?”
“No.”
“Then how—”
“My mother restored manuscripts.”
The answer stopped her.
For the first time that evening, Roman's face changed.
Only slightly.
Something human appeared.
Then disappeared.
Lydia noticed.
Roman continued.
“There aren't many people who spend enough time around conservation work to recognize the residue.”
“So Carter Voss inflated my father's debt because I repair old books?”
“No.”
“Then we're back to ridiculous.”
Roman pulled out another envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Lydia looked at it.
Her pulse stumbled.
It showed a document she recognized.
Cream paper.
Faded blue seal.
Handwritten signatures.
She had repaired it six months earlier for Margaret.
A nineteenth-century shipping certificate.
“Where did you get this?”
“Voss.”
Lydia looked up.
Roman's expression had become colder.
“That document disappeared three months ago.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Because it belonged to my family.”
Silence.
Lydia looked down again.
Suddenly the insignificant restoration job wasn't insignificant anymore.
“What was it?”
“Proof.”
“Of?”
Roman paused.
“That half of Mercer Maritime never belonged to the Mercer family.”
Lydia stared.
“It belonged to the Bennetts.”
Her throat tightened.
“My family?”
“Yes.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It will.”
Roman pushed the photograph closer.
“There was something hidden beneath the backing paper when you restored this.”
Lydia thought back.
The brittle certificate.
The loosened linen backing.
The faint impression beneath it.
She remembered finding a second layer.
Margaret had told her not to disturb it until the owner approved.
Then the document vanished.
“What was underneath?”
“I don't know.”
“Then why does Carter?”
“Because he stole it before we could find out.”
Lydia's thoughts began rearranging everything.
Gary.
The debt.
Tyler.
Dinner.
Her supposed marriage.
Roman.
“You didn't take over Tyler's debts because you cared about my father.”
“No.”
“You took them because of me.”
“Yes.”
Her chair suddenly felt too small.
Lydia stood.
Roman didn't stop her.
“I need to leave.”
“You can.”
That surprised her.
She stared down at him.
“You're not going to threaten me?”
“No.”
“Follow me?”
“Not unless you ask.”
“Kidnap me?”
Roman's expression flattened.
“No.”
Lydia grabbed her purse.
“Your reputation is very misleading.”
“So is your sweater.”
She almost hated him for making her want to laugh.
Almost.
She turned.
Then Roman said her name.
“Lydia.”
She stopped.
It was the first time he'd used her first name.
She looked back.
Roman held the original ledger sheet under the candlelight.
“Before you go home, call your father.”
“Why?”
“Ask him one question.”
“What?”
Roman's eyes hardened.
“Ask him when he first met Carter Voss.”
Lydia frowned.
“I already know.”
Roman waited.
She continued.
“Two years ago.”
“No.”
“How long?”
“Gary Bennett first met Carter Voss twenty-seven years ago.”
Lydia's face went pale.
Roman placed another photograph on the table.
A much younger Gary Bennett stood outside a warehouse.
Beside him was Carter Voss.
And between them stood a woman Lydia hadn't seen alive since she was eighteen years old.
Her mother.
May you like
On the back of the photograph, written in her mother's handwriting, were six words:
Roman Mercer must never find this.
