Chapter 3 - MARGARET’S SECOND DAUGHTERMargaret called me at 9:12.
Not Daniel.
Not Samuel.
Me.
I watched her name flash across my phone while Samuel read the trust documents for the third time.
“Answer it,” he said.
I did.
“Claire.”
Her voice was cold and controlled.
No apology.
Of course.
“I understand you’ve suspended my son.”
“Good morning to you too, Margaret.”
“Do not be childish.”
“My daughter has a handprint on her face.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
Samuel looked up.
I put the call on speaker.
Margaret continued.
“Emma behaved terribly yesterday. I regret losing my temper, but you’ve turned a private family disagreement into a corporate attack.”
“Daniel was not suspended because of you.”
Silence.
“Then why?”
“You should ask him.”
“I am asking you.”
“Who is Rebecca?”
Nothing.
For six seconds, the line was so quiet I checked whether the call had disconnected.
Then Margaret said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
That confirmed almost everything.
“You’re the trustee of her son’s trust.”
Samuel quietly slid a notepad toward me.
KEEP HER TALKING.
“You have been snooping through private documents.”
“They were discovered during an audit of my company.”
“Your company?”
There was something ugly in the way she repeated it.
“Yes.”
“My son gave fourteen years of his life to that business.”
“He was paid handsomely.”
“He built it.”
“No, Margaret. He joined it.”
“Without Daniel, you would still be selling dresses out of that ridiculous little shop.”
I felt the old familiar impulse to defend myself.
To explain revenue curves.
Expansion.
Investor rounds.
The nine employees I had before Daniel ever joined.
Then I realized I did not need to convince her.
“Who is Rebecca?”
“She is irrelevant.”
“So she exists.”
Margaret hung up.
Samuel leaned back.
“Well.”
“That went well.”
“She lied badly.”
“Margaret never lies badly.”
“Fear is bad for technique.”
Within an hour, our forensic accounting team found the first major connection.
Six years earlier, Claire & Co. had purchased a regional distribution company called Thompson Fulfillment.
The acquisition cost $18 million.
Daniel had led the negotiations.
Afterward, several contracts from Thompson had been reassigned to outside consultants.
Those consultants became Briar Hill and North Lake.
In other words, the fraud had been buried inside a legitimate acquisition.
But why?
Daniel earned nearly a million dollars a year.
He had stock.
Investments.
A beautiful home.
There was no obvious reason for him to steal.
Unless the money was not for him.
At noon, I drove to Margaret’s house.
Samuel told me not to.
Maya told me absolutely not to.
Even Evan thought I should let attorneys handle it.
I went anyway.
Margaret lived in Lake Forest in a gray stone house that looked as if it had been designed specifically to intimidate delivery drivers.
She opened the door before I rang.
“You have five minutes.”
“I need thirty.”
“You’ll get five.”
I walked past her.
The living room was immaculate.
Family photographs covered a long console.
Daniel.
Lauren.
Grandchildren.
Weddings.
Graduations.
No Rebecca.
“You should apologize to Emma.”
Margaret folded her arms.
“I already said I regret losing my temper.”
“To me.”
“That should be sufficient.”
“No.”
“Then I suppose you’ll remain disappointed.”
I wanted to scream.
Instead, I looked at the photographs.
“Where is she?”
Margaret stiffened.
“Rebecca.”
“Leave her alone.”
There it was again.
Fear.
Not anger.
“What happened?”
“She happened.”
“What does that mean?”
Margaret sat.
For the first time in fourteen years, she looked old.
Not polished-old.
Not wealthy-old.
Tired.
“Rebecca is my daughter.”
The simplicity of it knocked the air from the room.
“Daniel’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“Lauren’s sister?”
“Yes.”
“Why have I never heard of her?”
“Because she is not part of our lives.”
“Why?”
“That is none of your business.”
“She received millions from mine.”
Margaret looked sharply at me.
“She did not receive that money.”
“Her trust did.”
“For her son.”
“So you know.”
She looked toward the windows.
“How much did you find?”
“All of it.”
I lied.
Margaret laughed quietly.
“No, you didn’t.”
The hair on my arms rose.
“What does that mean?”
She stood.
“Our five minutes are over.”
“Why did Daniel send her money?”
“He didn’t.”
“The approvals carry his signature.”
“He was following instructions.”
“Whose?”
Margaret stared directly at me.
“Your father’s.”
For the second time that morning, I thought I had misheard.
“My father is dead.”
“Yes.”
“He died eight years ago.”
“I know.”
“The transfers began six years ago.”
“The transfers began six years ago under those company names.”
I stared at her.
Margaret walked to a cabinet and poured herself water.
“You think everything started when you noticed it.”
“What did my father have to do with Rebecca?”
She turned around.
“Ask your mother.”
“My mother died when I was nineteen.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then stop playing games.”
Margaret’s hand trembled slightly around the glass.
“I told Daniel this day would come.”
“What day?”
“The day you started pulling threads.”
“I want the truth.”
“No, Claire. You want a truth that lets you remain exactly who you were yesterday.”
She put down the glass.
“The actual truth may not.”
I crossed the room.
“Four point three million dollars left my company. If you know why, tell me now.”
“That money was never yours.”
“Legally, it was.”
“Legally.”
She almost smiled.
“You Whitmores love that word when it helps you.”
“I’m not a Whitmore.”
“No.”
The smile vanished.
“That was always the problem.”
I left before I did something I would regret.
In my car, I called Samuel.
“She said my father ordered the payments.”
Samuel was silent.
“That’s impossible, right?”
“I represented your father for twenty-two years.”
“That didn’t answer me.”
“No.”
“What?”
“No, Claire. I can’t tell you it’s impossible.”
My heart began hammering.
“Samuel.”
“There were arrangements your father made that I wasn’t fully briefed on.”
“What arrangements?”
“He had private counsel for certain personal matters.”
“Who?”
“A man named Leonard Pike.”
“Is he alive?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Wisconsin, last I knew.”
I started the car.
“Find him.”
“Claire.”
“What?”
“Come back to the office first.”
“Why?”
“Because our investigators found Rebecca.”
My hand froze over the ignition.
“Where?”
“Evanston.”
Twenty-two miles away.
“Is she married?”
“No.”
“Does she know about the audit?”
“We don’t know.”
“What does she do?”
Samuel hesitated.
“She teaches high-school English.”
That surprised me.
I had expected someone glamorous.
Dangerous.
Secretive.
Instead, Rebecca Whitmore taught teenagers Shakespeare and composition.
“Anything else?”
“One thing.”
“What?”
“Her son’s name.”
I waited.
“James.”
“So?”
“His full name is James Richard Whitmore.”
Richard.
My father’s name.
I said nothing.
Samuel continued cautiously.
“Claire, that alone proves nothing.”
But my body already understood what my mind was refusing to consider.
I looked through the windshield at Margaret’s gray stone house.
At the windows.
At the carefully curated family inside.
Then my phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
I answered.
A woman spoke.
“Claire?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Rebecca Whitmore.”
My breath stopped.
“I think we need to meet.”
I gripped the phone.
“Why?”
May you like
Her answer came softly.
“Because Daniel is lying to both of us.”
Related Stories
