Chapter 8 - The Black Ledger
Two hundred and eighty million dollars.
It was more money than I could imagine.
Arthur could.
That was the difference between us.
To him, the number represented years of hidden transactions.
To me, it represented lives.
Companies destroyed.
Employees fired.
Families pushed into bankruptcy.
My father among them.
"Where is the money?"
I asked.
"If I knew, I wouldn't be calling you."
Arthur sounded furious now.
"Beatrice used intermediaries."
"Then why call me?"
"Because she thinks you know."
I looked at Reed.
"Why would she think that?"
"Daniel."
The name landed like a stone.
"What does my father have to do with her stolen money?"
Arthur hesitated.
"Your father's patent wasn't the only thing she wanted."
"What else?"
"His encryption system."
I almost laughed.
"My father manufactured industrial components."
"He also designed security software for the machines."
I remembered.
Late nights.
Code on old monitors.
Dad complaining that engineers were being forced to become programmers.
Arthur continued.
"One version was adapted for banking authentication."
My pulse quickened.
"Beatrice used it."
"Years ago."
"To hide accounts?"
"To control access."
Reed leaned toward the phone.
"Arthur, where is that system now?"
Silence.
Then he asked, "Who is this?"
"Special Agent Naomi Reed."
Arthur cursed.
Reed ignored it.
"Where is the system?"
"I don't know."
"Then why does Beatrice believe Clara knows?"
"Because Daniel changed the final encryption key before he died."
My father's last year returned to me.
His old laptop.
Stacks of notebooks.
A silver USB drive he kept on his keychain.
I had thrown most of his electronics into storage after his death because I couldn't bear to sort through them.
My heart began pounding.
"Arthur."
"What?"
"What did the key look like?"
"I never saw it."
"Was it physical?"
"We believed so."
I closed my eyes.
The storage unit.
A box labeled DAD - OFFICE.
I had not opened it in six years.
Reed saw my face.
"You know something."
"Maybe."
Arthur heard me.
"Clara, listen to me."
"No."
"Beatrice will come for it."
"Then she can come through the FBI."
"Do not underestimate her."
I stared at the bruises on my arm.
"I stopped doing that yesterday."
The call ended.
Reed immediately arranged for agents to secure the storage unit.
I wanted to go.
The doctor refused.
Grace was still in the NICU.
So I waited.
Three hours later, Reed called.
"We found the box."
"And?"
"Old papers."
"Tools."
"Photographs."
"Your father's laptop."
My pulse rose.
"The USB?"
"No."
I closed my eyes.
"Check the keychain."
"We did."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing."
Then I remembered something so ordinary I almost missed it.
When my father died, I kept his old brass toolbox.
Not because it was valuable.
Because he had written my name inside the lid when I was a child.
I still had it.
Not in storage.
At home.
My home with Julian.
"Naomi."
"What?"
"I know where it might be."
Twenty minutes later, agents entered the house I had shared with my husband.
They found the toolbox in the garage.
The keychain wasn't inside.
But beneath the removable tray was a tiny metal capsule.
Inside the capsule was a strip of paper.
Twelve handwritten words.
Agent Reed photographed them and sent the image to me.
I recognized my father's handwriting instantly.
Below the words was a sentence.
For Clara, when the Vances finally come looking.
I stared at it until my vision blurred.
My father had known.
Not everything.
But enough.
Then Reed called again.
"Clara, there's a second message on the back."
I turned the photograph over digitally.
Three words were written there.
TRUST NO VANCE.
Not Arthur.
Not Beatrice.
Not Julian.
May you like
No one.
And five minutes later, Julian's attorney called the hospital to tell me he wanted to trade evidence for access to our daughter.
