Chapter 6 - She Refuses to Save Him
Andrew Vaughn's house was not a house.
That was Mason's conclusion.
“This is a hotel.”
“It isn't,” Jenna said.
“It has columns.”
“Some houses have columns.”
“It has a fountain.”
“Some houses have fountains.”
“It has a man opening the door.”
Jenna looked at the uniformed security officer.
“All right. That part is unusual.”
Mason whispered, “Is Mean Boss secretly a king?”
Andrew heard him from the foyer.
“No.”
Mason looked up.
“Do you have a throne?”
“No.”
“A sword?”
“No.”
“A dungeon?”
Jenna closed her eyes.
Andrew answered, “Not currently.”
“Andrew.”
He looked almost innocent.
Mason decided he liked him slightly more.
The Vaughn residence sat outside Savannah behind old oak trees and iron gates.
It was elegant rather than ostentatious, but Jenna could see generations of money everywhere.
Paintings.
Antique furniture.
Stone fireplaces.
A staircase wider than her living room.
Yet the house felt strangely empty.
No photographs on the main walls.
No toys.
No clutter.
Nothing that suggested anyone lived there rather than occupied it.
Mason changed that within eleven minutes.
Mr. Chomps sat on Andrew's marble coffee table.
Two toy cars crashed beneath an antique chair.
A picture book lay open on a sofa reportedly imported from Italy.
Andrew stared at the scene.
Jenna braced herself.
“I'm sorry. I'll clean—”
“Leave it.”
She blinked.
“You don't have to pretend children don't bother you.”
“I don't pretend.”
“That wasn't reassuring.”
Andrew looked toward Mason, who was inspecting a bronze statue.
“Don't touch the horse.”
Mason pulled his hand back.
“Why?”
“It's older than your grandmother.”
“How much older?”
“I don't know.”
“Then how do you know?”
Andrew looked at Jenna.
She smiled.
“Welcome to six.”
Dinner was awkward.
Andrew's chef had prepared sea bass.
Mason asked for macaroni.
The chef made macaroni.
Then Mason asked Andrew whether mafia bosses really ate spaghetti all the time.
Jenna nearly inhaled water.
Andrew put down his fork.
“Where did you learn the phrase mafia boss?”
“Grandma.”
Of course.
“What exactly does your grandmother think I do?”
“She says you move boxes and scare politicians.”
Andrew stared at Jenna.
She raised both hands.
“I have never described you that way.”
“Would you say it's inaccurate?”
“I plead the Fifth.”
Andrew smiled again.
It disturbed her how different his face looked when he did.
At Harborline, Andrew Vaughn had always seemed carved from something cold.
Here, with Mason lecturing him about dinosaurs, he looked younger.
Human.
That was dangerous.
Because Jenna needed to remain angry.
Anger created distance.
Distance was safe.
After Mason went to bed in a guest room large enough to have its own sitting area, Andrew brought Jenna into his study.
Printed records covered a long table.
She frowned.
“What happened to digital security?”
“I thought you'd appreciate paper.”
“I do.”
“I noticed.”
She glanced at him.
“When?”
“You documented your documentation.”
“That is because men like Blake exist.”
“Fair.”
“There you go again.”
They worked.
For two hours, the relationship became strangely simple.
Jenna found patterns.
Andrew answered questions.
No titles.
No corporate hierarchy.
Just evidence.
At 11:37 p.m., Jenna circled a line.
“There.”
Andrew leaned over her shoulder.
She became abruptly aware of how close he was.
Warm cologne.
Rolled shirtsleeves.
No suit jacket.
She moved slightly away.
“What?”
“Southbridge Recovery. Every invoice references damaged freight.”
“So?”
“There are no corresponding insurance claims.”
Andrew frowned.
“Maybe the loss was below deductible.”
“Every time?”
He understood.
“No.”
“They invented damage events.”
“To justify emergency expenses.”
“Yes.”
Andrew paced.
“How much?”
“Another nine million.”
He stopped.
“Thirty-five total?”
“That we've found.”
“Jesus.”
“Your accountants are going to have a fun week.”
Andrew gave her a look.
“Was that sympathy?”
“No.”
He almost smiled.
Then Jenna's laptop chimed.
New security alert.
Someone had attempted to log into Harborline's archived payroll database using Blake Turner's credentials.
Andrew immediately called IT.
“Trace it.”
They waited.
A minute later, the response came.
The login originated from a motel outside Macon.
Security moved.
But when officers arrived, the room was empty.
Laptop gone.
Blake gone.
Only one thing remained.
A prepaid phone discarded beneath the bed.
Forensics recovered fragments of messages.
Most were deleted.
One wasn't.
REED HAS THE NUMBERS.
The reply:
Then stop chasing the numbers and give her something else to worry about.
Jenna read the message.
Her skin went cold.
“Mason.”
Andrew immediately called upstairs security.
Two officers confirmed Mason was asleep.
Safe.
Jenna still stood.
“I want to see him.”
Andrew walked with her.
She entered the room quietly.
Mason was curled beneath a huge blanket, one hand resting on Mr. Chomps.
Jenna sat beside him.
Andrew remained in the doorway.
Something inside him shifted.
This was the part of corporate decisions nobody put into termination packets.
“Junior Operations Analyst.”
That was what the document called Jenna.
Not mother.
Not woman paying rent.
Not person who had sacrificed dinners and bedtime stories to save a company that threw her away.
A job title made consequences look clean.
People were not clean.
Jenna tucked the blanket around Mason.
When she returned to the hallway, her eyes were bright.
“I'm done.”
Andrew frowned.
“With tonight?”
“With all of it.”
“Jenna.”
“No.”
She walked toward the stairs.
“They threatened my son without using his name.”
“I'll protect him.”
“You can't promise that.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, Andrew. You can reduce risk. You cannot promise me nothing happens.”
He stopped.
She was right.
Again.
“I don't care about Harborline anymore,” she said.
“I know.”
“No, you don't. You keep looking at me like I'm going to solve this.”
“I need your help.”
“And I need my child safe.”
Andrew's voice softened.
“Then we stop.”
She looked at him.
“What?”
“We stop the investigation.”
“You'd do that?”
“For Mason? Yes.”
“What about thirty-five million dollars?”
“Money.”
“Your board?”
“They'll survive disappointment.”
“Your company?”
“If Harborline can't survive without putting a six-year-old at risk, then it doesn't deserve to survive.”
Jenna stared at him.
That was not what she expected.
For the first time since Thursday, the anger inside her loosened.
Only slightly.
Then Andrew's phone rang.
His security director.
“Sir, you need to see the news.”
Andrew turned on the television.
A local business channel filled the screen.
BREAKING: HARBORLINE FREIGHT SYSTEMS UNDER FEDERAL REVIEW FOLLOWING PHARMACEUTICAL LOSS
Jenna looked at him.
The reporter continued.
“Sources allege that senior Harborline executives knowingly concealed safety concerns before a multimillion-dollar medical shipment was compromised.”
Andrew's eyes narrowed.
Someone had leaked it.
But then the next line came.
“And documents provided to our newsroom identify former junior analyst Jenna Reed as the employee responsible for altering key system classifications.”
Jenna went white.
A photograph appeared.
Her Harborline employee photo.
Her full name.
Andrew's expression became lethal.
The reporter continued.
“Sources claim Reed was terminated after internal investigators discovered alleged misconduct.”
Jenna whispered, “They made me the story.”
Andrew looked at her.
This wasn't just about recovering stolen money anymore.
Someone was trying to destroy Jenna publicly before she could speak.
Her phone began ringing.
Unknown number.
Then another.
Messages.
Social media notifications.
Mason's school.
Her mother.
Jenna stared at the screen as hundreds of strangers began sharing her photograph alongside words like negligence, fraud, and medical shipment scandal.
She looked up at Andrew.
Her eyes were no longer afraid.
They were furious.
“You said you needed my help?”
“Yes.”
Jenna slowly put down the phone.
May you like
“Then we're not stopping.”
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