Chapter 8 - The Chalet
The photo had been taken five weeks earlier.
Metadata placed it inside the Breckenridge chalet at 9:16 p.m.
The sender had stripped most identifying information.
But not everything.
The original device had belonged to Brooke Bennett.
I stared at her name on Maya’s laptop.
“Brooke sent this?”
“Or someone using her phone did.”
Thirty seconds later, a text arrived.
UNKNOWN NUMBER.
I sent the picture.
Do not tell my mother.
I replied.
Why?
The answer came immediately.
Because Dad thinks I deleted everything.
Maya leaned over my shoulder.
“Ask what everything means.”
I typed.
What do you have?
Three dots appeared.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then.
Videos.
Documents.
Voicemails.
I swallowed.
Why didn’t you stop them?
The reply took longer.
Because I thought Ryan was only stealing from you.
Then I learned what Dad was doing.
I looked at Maya.
She looked back.
“What does that mean?”
I typed exactly that.
Brooke sent an address.
A coffee shop six blocks away.
NO POLICE.
Maya shook her head before I said anything.
“You are not meeting her alone.”
“I know.”
We arranged for a private investigator from Maya’s firm to sit nearby.
Brooke arrived wearing a baseball cap and oversized coat.
She looked exhausted.
No makeup.
No expensive purse.
No confidence.
For once, she looked twenty-six instead of sixteen.
She sat across from me.
“I’m sorry.”
I did not answer.
She looked down.
“I should have stopped Dad.”
“Yes.”
“I should have stopped Ryan.”
“Yes.”
“I should have helped you.”
“Yes.”
Her eyes filled.
I did not rescue her from that feeling.
She pushed a USB drive across the table.
“Dad started borrowing money from private investors two years ago.”
“For what?”
“Restaurants.”
“Did they exist?”
“Some.”
“What happened?”
“They failed.”
Brooke wrapped both hands around her coffee.
“Then he started using new investment money to pay old investors.”
My stomach tightened.
A pyramid of debt.
“Ryan knew?”
She nodded.
“He said he could fix it by using your credit until the Breckenridge project opened.”
“And the company information?”
Brooke flinched.
“Dad heard Ryan talking about your company buying a smaller cybersecurity firm.”
“He thought the valuation would move the stock.”
“Yes.”
“Was Ryan helping him?”
She hesitated.
That was the answer.
“How?”
“Dad wanted the acquisition date before it became public.”
I felt my heartbeat in my throat.
“Ryan tried to get it.”
Brooke nodded.
“Did he succeed?”
“I don’t know.”
Then she looked straight at me.
“But Dad told someone on the phone that he had enough information to make back everything he owed.”
I touched the USB drive.
“What’s on this?”
“Copies of Dad’s files.”
“Why did you keep them?”
Her face crumpled.
“Because three weeks ago, Dad told Ryan that if anything went wrong, they were going to say you ran the whole thing.”
I stopped breathing.
Brooke reached into her coat.
She removed a folded document.
At the top was a typed title.
CRISIS LIABILITY PLAN.
Below it were three words.
May you like
PRIMARY RESPONSIBLE PARTY.
CLAIRE BENNETT.
