Chapter 7 - THE MISSING FRIENDI hated Rachel.
I also wanted her found alive.
Those two truths lived comfortably beside each other.
People like simple emotions.
Love or hate.
Victim or villain.
Friend or enemy.
Real life doesn't cooperate.
Rachel had betrayed me.
Taken money.
Given Michael information.
Slept with him.
Helped him move pieces across a board I didn't know existed.
But I'd also known her since fourth grade.
I knew she hated olives.
Knew she slept with socks on even in summer.
Knew she called her father every Sunday morning.
Knew she cried during dog-food commercials.
And somewhere beneath the fury was the child who had once sat beside me on a playground after my parents separated and promised we'd be sisters forever.
When detectives called to say she was missing, my first question was:
"Is Michael missing too?"
No.
He had checked into a Manhattan hotel under his own name.
His lawyers confirmed he had been there most of the evening.
Security footage supported it.
Too convenient.
Sloan warned me against conclusions.
Again.
"Could Rachel have left voluntarily?"
"Without shoes?"
"People stage disappearances."
"Would she?"
"You're asking me to assess someone who deceived you for months."
Fair.
Police searched.
Her credit cards remained unused.
No flights.
No toll records tied to her car.
Then Marcus found something.
Rachel had created a scheduled email.
It arrived in my inbox twenty-four hours after she disappeared.
Subject:
IF I DON'T CANCEL THIS
My heart hammered.
Naomi insisted we forward it directly to Sloan before opening attachments.
The body contained three sentences.
Ev, I'm sorry. I know that isn't enough.
I found where Michael keeps the original files.
If something happens, look at the lake house.
What lake house?
Michael didn't own one.
At least not under Michael Lane.
Michael Larkin did.
An old family property in Pennsylvania, inherited through his father.
Sloan immediately sent the information to Pennsylvania authorities.
The property was empty.
Rachel wasn't there.
But detectives found something else.
A locked basement room.
Inside were document boxes.
Old computers.
Financial records.
And files dating back more than a decade.
Laura.
Cassandra.
Me.
Several other women.
Not wives.
Clients.
Employers.
Girlfriends.
People Michael had borrowed from.
Manipulated.
Blackmailed.
He wasn't simply a marriage predator.
Marriage was one branch of his business model.
And in a metal cabinet, investigators found documentation relating to Laura Keene's death.
Repair invoices for Michael's car.
Dated one day after Laura's accident.
The front bumper had been replaced.
That was suspicious.
Not proof.
The car that hit Laura's vehicle had never been definitively identified.
But detectives reopened the case.
Then they found Rachel.
Alive.
She walked into a police station in Allentown forty-one hours after disappearing.
Michael hadn't kidnapped her.
She had run.
When I learned the truth, my relief turned into rage so quickly I nearly laughed.
Rachel had seen Michael outside her building.
Panicked.
Left through a service exit.
Borrowed cash from a neighbor.
Took a bus.
Stayed in a motel under a false name.
She left her phone because she believed it was being tracked.
"What about the photograph?" I demanded later.
Rachel looked ashamed.
"I did that."
"You drew the line through your own face?"
"I wanted police to think Michael was responsible."
Naomi closed her eyes.
"Why?"
"So they'd take it seriously."
Sloan's expression could have frozen water.
"You contaminated your own missing-person investigation because you wanted attention?"
"I was terrified."
"You could have gotten innocent people hurt."
"I know."
"No, Ms. Dawson. I don't think you do."
Rachel cried.
For once, nobody cared.
But the stupid stunt had one unexpected consequence.
By pretending Michael threatened her, Rachel destroyed most of her remaining credibility.
His lawyers attacked.
They portrayed her as unstable.
A jealous mistress.
A liar.
Which she was.
Unfortunately for Michael, liars can still possess truthful evidence.
And the notebook was real.
So were the bank transfers.
So were the cameras.
So were the pills.
So were the forged signatures.
The case no longer depended on Rachel.
That distinction mattered.
Meanwhile, the board retreat approached.
Armitage requested a delay.
I refused.
My board met in Connecticut under tight security.
Michael was barred.
Andrew Vale attended remotely at first, then unexpectedly appeared in person.
He behaved as though nothing had happened.
"Evelyn," he said, extending his hand.
I looked at it.
Then at him.
"Andrew."
He lowered his hand.
"I've heard you're going through a difficult personal situation."
"Have you?"
"I hope things resolve."
"I'm sure you do."
Naomi, sitting beside me as counsel, gave me a warning glance.
No accusations.
Not yet.
The meeting began.
For two hours, Armitage presented projections.
Synergies.
Market expansion.
Cost savings.
Then it was my turn.
I stood.
Andrew watched confidently.
He still thought this was about whether I was mentally capable of making a decision.
So I gave him one.
I projected the first slide.
UNDISCLOSED LIABILITIES — $31.4 MILLION
His expression changed.
I walked the board through pension obligations.
Pending litigation.
Debt covenants.
Subsidiary losses.
Every issue my team had uncovered.
Not speculation.
Documents.
Numbers.
Facts.
By the time I finished, nobody was discussing my marriage.
They were discussing Armitage.
Thomas Reed asked the final question.
"Given these findings, what's management's recommendation?"
I looked around the table.
"The transaction as currently structured is not supportable. I recommend we suspend negotiations pending full independent due diligence."
That wasn't a personal victory.
It was a business decision based on the records in front of us.
The board voted.
Negotiations were suspended unanimously.
Andrew packed his papers.
Before leaving, he looked at me.
"You don't understand what you just cost people."
"Then send them an invoice."
His jaw tightened.
Outside the room, federal agents were waiting.
They didn't arrest him.
They served him with a subpoena.
Watching him read it was satisfying enough.
But Michael reacted more dramatically.
That evening, he disappeared.
His hotel room was empty.
His passport was gone.
One car registered to Northbridge vanished from a garage.
His attorneys claimed not to know where he was.
A warrant was issued relating to financial fraud and evidence tampering.
For four days, nothing.
Then my doorbell rang at the secure apartment Naomi had arranged for me.
Security called immediately.
"Ms. Lane, there's a delivery downstairs."
"I didn't order anything."
"It's a flower arrangement."
"From whom?"
"No card."
My stomach tightened.
"Don't bring it up."
Police examined it.
Inside the vase, beneath the flowers, they found a cheap prepaid phone.
One saved audio file.
Michael's voice.
Calm.
Warm.
Almost affectionate.
"Evelyn, you wanted the truth. Come get it."
Then an address.
Cassandra's former house.
The home she'd shared with Michael years earlier.
Sloan ordered me not to respond.
I didn't.
But the next sentence changed everything.
"Rachel knows why Laura died."
I called Rachel.
She answered on the fourth ring.
"What does he mean?"
Silence.
"Rachel."
"I don't know."
"You're lying."
"I swear—"
"Twenty-six years. I know your lying voice."
She began crying.
"Tell me."
"I found something in the notebook."
"What?"
"A payment."
"To whom?"
"I couldn't identify the name."
"Related to Laura?"
"Yes."
"Why didn't you tell police?"
"I did."
"Then why does Michael think you know why she died?"
Rachel hesitated.
"Because there was another note."
"What note?"
She whispered:
Laura discovered the account. Decision made.
My stomach turned.
"Decision by whom?"
"There were initials."
"What initials?"
"ML."
Michael.
"And one other set."
I already knew before she said it.
"AV."
Andrew Vale.
Seven years earlier.
Long before my merger.
Long before Michael married me.
Andrew and Michael hadn't recently become partners.
May you like
They had been working together for years.
And Laura Keene may have died because she discovered what they were doing.
