Chapter 2 - The Name Nobody Was Supposed to Know
I had spent five thousand dollars preparing for humiliation.
I hadn't prepared for my mother's name.
Vincent Carbone stood beneath the chandelier staring at me.
Larkin's expression hardened.
Thomas appeared beside us.
"What's going on?"
Carbone gave him a look that immediately silenced him.
Then his attention returned to me.
"Your mother is Elizabeth Woods?"
I forced myself to breathe.
"Yes."
"Elizabeth Anne Woods?"
My stomach tightened.
"How do you know her?"
Carbone looked at Larkin.
That was the first thing that frightened me.
The second was Larkin's response.
"Vincent."
One word.
A warning.
Carbone smiled faintly.
"She doesn't know."
"Know what?" I asked.
Neither man answered.
I looked at Larkin.
"Mr. Steves?"
"Not here."
Three words.
Calm.
Controlled.
Final.
Usually, I obeyed that voice automatically.
Tonight, something had changed.
Maybe it was the dress.
Maybe it was discovering that the men who knew everything about my professional life also knew something about my family.
"No."
Thomas actually choked on his champagne.
Larkin's eyes narrowed.
"No?"
"You invited me here. Mr. Carbone mentioned my mother. You reacted like you know exactly why. So I'd like an explanation."
The surrounding guests were pretending not to listen.
They were terrible actors.
Larkin stepped closer.
"Penelope."
"Mr. Steves."
His jaw tightened.
For one strange second, I thought he might smile.
Instead, he offered his arm.
"Walk with me."
I looked at it.
Then at him.
"This isn't a date."
"I'm aware."
"Good."
I placed my hand lightly on his arm.
The entire ballroom noticed.
Thomas looked furious.
Larkin guided me toward a quieter gallery overlooking Central Park.
When the doors closed behind us, the gala became a distant murmur.
I released his arm immediately.
"Explain."
He studied me.
"You've changed."
"My hair has."
"Not what I meant."
I folded my arms.
"Larkin."
It was the first time I'd ever used his first name.
His gaze sharpened.
"What does Vincent know about my mother?"
He walked toward the window.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
"Your mother worked for my uncle."
I laughed because the alternative was screaming.
"My mother taught high-school mathematics for twenty-seven years."
"Before that."
"She worked at a bank."
"That bank handled accounts belonging to my family."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
"What kind of accounts?"
"You already know the answer."
Of course I did.
The same kind I handled.
I stared at him.
"My mother worked for your syndicate?"
"Not exactly."
"That's not an answer."
"She discovered what the bank was doing."
I thought of my mother.
Elizabeth Woods.
Cardigans.
Crossword puzzles.
Sunday morning pancakes.
A woman who returned extra change when cashiers made mistakes.
"She found irregular transactions," Larkin continued. "She documented them."
"What happened?"
"My uncle found out."
My throat tightened.
"Did he hurt her?"
"No."
The answer came immediately.
Too immediately?
I searched his face.
He seemed sincere.
"Why?"
"Because someone helped her disappear from the financial system before my uncle could reach her."
"Who?"
"I don't know."
That surprised me.
Larkin hated not knowing things.
"Your mother resigned," he said. "Changed boroughs. Became a teacher. Eventually everyone assumed she'd destroyed whatever evidence she had."
"Did she?"
"I don't know."
I looked through the glass doors toward Vincent Carbone.
"Then why did he recognize me?"
"You look like her."
I'd heard that my entire life.
Tonight, for the first time, it frightened me.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know you were her daughter when I hired you."
"And afterward?"
"I discovered it six months later."
Three years.
He had known for two and a half of them.
"You investigated me."
"I investigate everyone who touches my finances."
"How romantic."
His mouth twitched.
"Was that sarcasm?"
"Three years working for you and you're only discovering this?"
This time, he actually smiled.
Barely.
Then it vanished.
"I kept you employed because you were good."
"Not because of my mother?"
"No."
"Then why have I never been promoted?"
Silence.
Interesting.
"Larkin."
"Because promotions would put you closer to people I didn't trust."
I stared at him.
"Are you saying you kept me in a cubicle to protect me?"
"I'm saying the cubicle was safe."
"You could've told me."
"You would've quit."
"Maybe."
"And your debt?"
That hit harder than it should have.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
"I don't need your pity."
"You've never had it."
Before I could respond, the gallery doors opened.
Thomas entered.
His expression was no longer playful.
"Sorry to interrupt this touching employee review, but we have a problem."
Larkin's posture changed immediately.
"What?"
"Carbone left."
"So?"
"He took his security team."
Larkin glanced toward the ballroom.
Thomas continued.
"Before he left, he called someone."
"Who?"
"No idea. But he said Elizabeth Woods' daughter was here."
My stomach dropped.
Larkin immediately removed his phone.
"Daniel."
A man answered.
"Bring the car to the east entrance."
I shook my head.
"I'm not going anywhere until—"
"You are leaving."
"You don't control me."
"Tonight, I'm making an exception."
His voice wasn't cruel.
It was afraid.
That frightened me more.
We moved through a service corridor.
Larkin stayed beside me.
Thomas followed.
"Why would anyone care who my mother is?" I demanded.
Larkin didn't answer.
"Larkin."
"Because if Elizabeth kept those records, someone may believe you have them."
"I don't."
"That doesn't matter."
We reached the elevator.
Thomas pressed the button.
Then he looked at me.
"Your transformation really ruined the evening."
I glared at him.
"Sorry."
He gave a nervous laugh.
"Believe it or not, Penny, right now I'd rather have boring you back."
The elevator opened.
We entered.
As the doors closed, my phone vibrated inside my clutch.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
There was a photograph attached.
My mother.
She was younger, maybe twenty-five.
Standing outside a Manhattan bank.
Beside her stood three men.
One was Vincent Carbone.
One was Larkin's uncle, whom I recognized from photographs.
And the third—
I enlarged the image.
My breath stopped.
"Larkin."
He looked over.
I turned the phone toward him.
His face changed.
The third man was my father.
My father, who my mother had always said died before I was born.
Under the photograph was a message.
ASK YOUR MOTHER WHY SHE LIED ABOUT YOUR FATHER.
Another message arrived immediately.
AND ASK LARKIN STEVES WHY HIS FAMILY PAID FOR THE FUNERAL.
I slowly looked up.
Larkin wasn't looking at the photograph anymore.
He was looking at me.
And in his eyes, I saw the answer before he spoke.
May you like
He knew.
My boss hadn't merely discovered who my mother was. Somewhere inside the secrets of his family, Larkin Steves already knew what had happened to my father.
