Chapter 3 - The Night Arthur Forgot
Arthur didn’t speak for nearly a minute.
I had never seen him uncertain before.
Angry, yes.
Impatient, frequently.
Amused, occasionally.
But never shaken.
“Who was in the car?” I asked.
His jaw tightened.
“My brother.”
I waited.
“Daniel.”
The name seemed difficult for him.
“He died?”
“Yes.”
I sat across from him.
Arthur’s hands rested motionless on the desk.
“Five years ago Daniel and I attended a meeting outside Milwaukee. We drove back during heavy rain.”
His voice became strangely mechanical.
“A truck crossed lanes. Our car left the road.”
I said nothing.
“I woke in the hospital three days later. Daniel was dead. Damage to both optic nerves was permanent.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded once.
Not accepting sympathy.
Simply acknowledging a fact.
“What did the caller mean by asking who was in the car?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could someone else have been there?”
“No.”
He answered too quickly.
Arthur heard it himself.
He leaned back.
“I remember Daniel driving.”
“Anything after the crash?”
“Sound.”
“What sound?”
He frowned.
“A door.”
My pulse quickened.
“Car door?”
“Maybe.”
“What else?”
“Someone speaking.”
Arthur pressed two fingers to his temple.
“No.”
I moved closer.
“Don’t force it.”
“I remember everything.”
“Apparently not everything.”
He almost snapped at me.
Then stopped.
Because that was the point.
Arthur’s memory had become his identity after blindness.
If his memory failed, what else could he trust?
The following morning, I was officially fired.
In front of everyone.
Arthur played the role beautifully.
“Your services are no longer required.”
I stood before his desk while Malcolm Reed and three board members watched.
“You’re firing me?”
“Yes.”
“Because I questioned your accounting?”
Arthur’s face remained hard.
“Because you forgot your position.”
Malcolm looked satisfied.
Too satisfied.
I grabbed my bag.
“Fine.”
I walked out.
Vincent escorted me to the elevator.
As soon as the doors closed, he whispered:
“You enjoyed that too much.”
“I’ve always wanted to dramatically quit a billionaire.”
“He’s not a billionaire.”
“Millionaire?”
Vincent shrugged.
“Depends which newspaper you believe.”
The doors opened into the parking garage.
Vincent handed me a key.
“What’s this?”
“Apartment two blocks away. Temporary.”
“Arthur arranged it?”
“Yes.”
“I have an apartment.”
“Someone photographed you.”
Right.
An hour later, I sat in a small furnished apartment with three laptops, accounting records, and more coffee than any human required.
Officially unemployed.
Unofficially investigating Arthur Cornero.
Vincent sent documents electronically.
Arthur called every evening from a secure number.
No greetings.
No small talk.
Just numbers.
“Transfer four seventeen.”
“Two hundred ninety thousand.”
“Vendor?”
“Midwest Structural Holdings.”
“Registered address?”
“Naperville.”
“Incorrect.”
I sat straighter.
“What?”
“That company operated in Evanston three years ago.”
I searched.
Arthur was right.
The registered address had changed six months before the suspicious transfers began.
I checked the new location.
It belonged to a law office.
The law office belonged to Malcolm Reed’s brother-in-law.
That was our first real connection.
But Arthur wasn’t satisfied.
“Too obvious.”
“You think Malcolm wants us to find it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Malcolm is frightened.”
“Of you?”
“No.”
That answer chilled me.
The CFO of Arthur Cornero’s organization was terrified.
But not of Arthur.
Then who?
On the fourth night, I found a second pattern.
I called Arthur immediately.
“You awake?”
“Yes.”
“It’s two in the morning.”
“You called.”
Fair.
I opened the spreadsheet.
“The eight million wasn’t disappearing randomly.”
“I know.”
“You know?”
“You breathe faster when you’re excited.”
“Please stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Knowing things.”
His low laugh surprised me.
Then I continued.
“Every payment eventually converges on the same holding company.”
“Name?”
“Bellweather Capital.”
Arthur went silent.
“Arthur?”
“Spell it.”
I did.
Nothing.
“Do you know it?”
“No.”
But he was lying.
I knew because Arthur had taught me what silence meant.
“Arthur.”
“Continue researching.”
Then he hung up.
I was furious.
The next morning, Vincent arrived with breakfast.
“Arthur knows Bellweather.”
Vincent froze.
Interesting.
“You know it too.”
He slowly put the coffee down.
“Norah—”
“What is Bellweather Capital?”
Vincent looked toward the windows.
“It belonged to Daniel.”
Arthur’s dead brother.
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“It was dissolved after Daniel died.”
“Well, somebody forgot to tell the bank.”
Vincent sat.
“Arthur cannot know.”
“He already knows.”
Vincent swore.
“Why is everybody protecting him from his own history?”
“Because five years ago, Arthur almost destroyed everything trying to discover why Daniel died.”
“The crash?”
Vincent looked at me.
“There were questions.”
“What questions?”
“The brakes.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about them?”
“They had been serviced that morning.”
“And?”
Vincent’s face became grim.
“The mechanic disappeared two days later.”
I stared at him.
“So it wasn’t an accident.”
“We could never prove that.”
“And Arthur?”
“He suspected it.”
“Why did he stop investigating?”
Vincent hesitated.
That hesitation told me the answer was bad.
“Because somebody mailed him Daniel’s watch.”
I felt cold.
“With a note.”
“What did it say?”
Vincent looked directly at me.
“Keep digging and the next funeral won’t be Daniel’s.”
That afternoon, another envelope arrived at my temporary apartment.
No return address.
Inside was a photograph.
Arthur.
Daniel.
And a third man standing beside the car on the night of the crash.
May you like
On the back, someone had written:
ASK ARTHUR WHY HE NEVER TOLD YOU ABOUT HIS FATHER.
