Chapter 6: The House Was Empty
I didn't remember leaving the storage facility.
I remembered the elevator.
The parking lot.
Voss telling me not to drive.
Then I was sitting in the back of his car while Boston's lights slid across the windows.
Eight years ago.
Seventeen attempted transactions.
Desmond's credentials.
My father's death.
I wanted them to form a pattern.
I was terrified they already did.
"Take me home," I said.
Voss turned from the front seat.
"That may not be wise.""
"It's my house.""
"Desmond may be there.""
"Good.""
"Wren.""
"I need to know what he took.""
Voss studied me.
Then nodded to the driver.
Our house stood in a quiet neighborhood outside the city.
Three stories of brick, dark windows and carefully maintained ivy.
I'd loved it once.
Desmond and I had bought it after our third anniversary.
We'd painted the kitchen ourselves.
We'd argued over furniture.
We'd talked about children there.
Another life.
The front door was unlocked.
That was wrong.
I stopped on the porch.
Voss stood behind me.
"Stay here.""
"No.""
I pushed the door open.
"Desmond?""
Silence.
The hallway lights were on.
A drawer from the console table had been pulled out.
Empty.
I walked toward the stairs.
"Wren," Voss warned.
I kept moving.
The bedroom looked untouched.
Until I opened the closet.
Desmond's suits were gone.
His shoes.
His travel bags.
The small safe where he kept passports and watches stood open.
Empty.
"He ran," Voss said.
"No.""
I stared at the empty shelves.
"He prepared.""
There was a difference.
Running was panic.
This was evacuation.
I crossed to my desk.
The bottom drawer was locked.
I opened it.
My passport remained inside.
So did my personal records.
But one folder was missing.
My father's estate documents.
I felt sick.
"He knew exactly what he wanted.""
Voss's phone rang downstairs.
I barely heard him answer.
I was staring at the empty space where the folder had been.
Then I noticed something beneath the desk.
A white envelope.
It must have fallen when someone searched the drawer.
My name was written across the front.
WREN.
Desmond's handwriting.
I picked it up.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Not a goodbye letter.
A photocopy.
An old bank authorization.
My father's name appeared at the bottom.
Above it was a transfer for $6.2 million.
Recipient:
Veyron Holdings.
Not Veyron Advisory.
Holdings.
The predecessor.
Dated eight years ago.
Two days before my father died.
Voss entered the room.
He saw the paper.
"What is that?""
I handed it to him.
He read it.
Then sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
"Six million?""
"You've never seen this?""
"No.""
"Look at the signature.""
He did.
"It's your father's.""
"No.""
I pointed.
"The A.""
My father had taught me the backward stroke I used in my own signature.
This one didn't have it.
"It's forged.""
Voss looked up.
"Then someone stole six million dollars from your father.""
"Or tried to.""
I called Oliver.
He answered immediately.
"I found a transfer authorization from eight years ago.""
"Amount?""
"Six-point-two million.""
Silence.
"Oliver?""
"I'm checking.""
I heard typing.
Then nothing.
Too much nothing.
"Oliver.""
"The transfer cleared.""
My knees weakened.
"What?""
"It was processed through an account your father closed shortly afterward.""
"Where did the money go?""
"Veyron Holdings.""
"Can you trace it?""
"Give me a few minutes.""
I ended the call.
Voss paced toward the window.
"Why would your father hide this?""
"Maybe he didn't know.""
"He would have noticed six million dollars.""
"Unless something happened before he could.""
Again, the thought.
Again, Voss saw it.
"Wren, don't jump ahead of evidence.""
"I'm not.""
But I was.
Because eight years ago, my father had died alone in his study.
And Desmond had been the person who found him.
That detail had once seemed like a tragedy.
Desmond had called me crying.
He'd held me at the funeral.
He'd slept beside me while I screamed into my pillow.
He had been my anchor.
My phone rang.
Oliver.
"Tell me.""
"We traced Veyron Holdings.""
"And?""
"It dissolved seven years ago.""
"Who owned it?""
"The ownership was concealed through two intermediary entities.""
My fingers tightened around the phone.
"But?""
"But the final beneficiary appears in an archived compliance record.""
"Who?""
Oliver hesitated.
"Wren...""
"Say it.""
"Callum Ashcombe.""
I closed my eyes.
Desmond's brother.
Voss whispered a curse.
Then something downstairs crashed.
We both froze.
Not a small sound.
Heavy.
Deliberate.
Someone was inside the house.
Voss reached for his phone.
I heard footsteps below us.
Slow.
Coming toward the stairs.
"Wren," Voss whispered.
"Behind me.""
The footsteps stopped.
A man's voice rose from the dark hallway below.
"Don't call anyone.""
I knew that voice.
But it wasn't Desmond.
I stepped toward the bedroom door.
"Callum?""
Silence.
Then Desmond's younger brother appeared at the top of the staircase.
His shirt was wrinkled.
His face was pale.
And in his hand was the missing folder from my father's estate.
May you like
"Your husband didn't run from you," Callum said.
"He ran from me.""
