Chapter 6 - ARTHUR’S SECRETArthur was missing for four hours.
They were the longest four hours of my life.
Police searched the road between the house and town.
Security teams checked hospitals.
Thomas Bell quietly activated Harrington’s private investigative unit.
Nora made calls I was too angry to make without yelling.
At 11:23 p.m., my phone rang.
Arthur.
I answered so quickly I nearly dropped it.
“Where are you?”
“Claire—”
“Where are you?”
“A police station in Portsmouth.”
New Hampshire.
Nearly ninety miles away.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Why are you in New Hampshire?”
A pause.
“I followed someone.”
I closed my eyes.
Arthur Sloan was eighty-one years old.
“You followed someone?”
“I may have exercised poor judgment.”
“You think?”
“I found the car that came to the house.”
My anger vanished.
“How?”
“The cameras caught only part of the license plate before they were disabled.”
“You told police there was nothing useful.”
“I didn’t want them alerting whoever was responsible before I knew more.”
“You are not a detective.”
“I was an intelligence officer for six years.”
I stared at Nora.
She heard him.
Her eyebrows rose.
“You were what?”
Arthur sighed.
“Before I worked for your grandmother.”
Apparently, everybody in my childhood had secret lives.
“Stay there.”
“We need to talk.”
“Yes. About why an eighty-one-year-old man decided to chase a possible criminal across state lines.”
“That too.”
We reached Portsmouth after one in the morning.
Arthur sat in a police interview room drinking vending-machine coffee.
He looked infuriatingly pleased to see us.
I hugged him.
Then smacked his shoulder.
“Ow.”
“Good.”
Nora sat down.
“What happened?”
Arthur told us.
The suspicious car was a black Audi registered to a corporate security contractor named Branton Risk Solutions.
Arthur recognized the company.
Harrington Group used Branton.
Malcolm Reeves personally approved their contract.
Arthur spotted the vehicle at a gas station and followed it.
“Why didn’t you call police then?” I asked.
“I did.”
“Eventually.”
“Yes.”
The Audi drove to Portsmouth, where two men entered a private storage facility.
Police intercepted them after Arthur reported the location.
Inside their vehicle officers found lock picks, electronic surveillance tools, and copies of old Ashford property plans.
But no stolen file.
The men claimed they were conducting “authorized corporate investigations.”
Authorized by whom?
They refused to say.
Nora leaned back.
“This points to Malcolm.”
Arthur shook his head.
“Too neatly.”
“What do you mean?”
“Malcolm is many things. Stupid isn’t one.”
“Hiring your regular security contractor to commit burglary would be stupid,” I said.
“Exactly.”
Arthur reached into his coat and removed a folded sheet.
“I found this under my windshield wiper at the gas station.”
My pulse quickened.
The note contained four words.
ASK THOMAS ABOUT VICTOR’S SON.
I stared at it.
“Thomas Bell?”
Arthur nodded.
“The man who recognized your pendant.”
That made no sense.
Thomas had worked for Harrington Grand for eighteen years.
Before that, according to his public biography, he was a police detective in Maryland.
I called him.
No answer.
Again.
Nothing.
Nora frowned.
“His phone was on two hours ago.”
I checked location data from the security coordination system.
Thomas’s last registered position:
Harrington Grand Hotel.
New York.
11:06 p.m.
Then nothing.
We drove back before sunrise.
At seven forty, we entered the Harrington Grand through a private service entrance.
Thomas’s office was empty.
His coat hung behind the door.
Coffee sat untouched on his desk.
A hotel security supervisor told us Thomas had received a call shortly after eleven and left quickly.
“Did he say where?”
“No.”
“Who called?”
“We don’t know.”
I looked around his office.
Family photographs.
Police commendations.
Hotel security certifications.
Then I noticed one picture different from the others.
Thomas as a much younger man.
Standing beside another young man outside what appeared to be a Coast Guard station.
The second man looked familiar.
I picked up the frame.
Arthur entered behind me.
He froze.
“Claire.”
“You know him?”
“Yes.”
“Who is it?”
Arthur took the photograph.
“That’s Michael Prescott.”
Daniel’s uncle.
Victor’s younger brother.
I stared at him.
Thomas Bell knew the Prescott family.
Nora immediately began searching records.
Within twenty minutes she found the connection.
Thomas Bell had been born Thomas Bellamy.
His mother remarried when he was ten.
Her second husband?
Michael Prescott.
Thomas wasn’t Daniel’s biological cousin.
But they had grown up in the same extended family for seven years.
Daniel had never mentioned him.
Why?
A sound came from the doorway.
We turned.
Thomas stood there.
His face was bruised.
His shirt collar was torn.
He looked exhausted.
Two security officers moved toward him.
I raised a hand.
“Where were you?”
Thomas closed the door.
“I can explain.”
“Start.”
He looked at Arthur.
“You found the photograph.”
“Yes.”
Thomas sat slowly.
“When I recognized your pendant at the gala, it wasn’t because I work for Harrington.”
“Then why?”
“My stepfather had one like it.”
Arthur inhaled.
“Michael kept the medal?”
Thomas nodded.
After Victor’s procurement fraud investigation, Michael Prescott had secretly helped Grandmother recover several million dollars.
For his cooperation, she gave him a small Ashford service medal bearing the lighthouse seal.
Michael kept it until his death.
Thomas grew up seeing it.
“So you recognized me,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And Daniel?”
“I hadn’t spoken to Daniel in twenty years.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
“Someone left Arthur a note saying to ask you about Victor’s son.”
Thomas’s face tightened.
“That isn’t referring to Daniel.”
Nobody spoke.
Victor’s son.
Not Daniel?
Thomas looked toward the closed door.
“Victor had another son.”
Arthur whispered, “No.”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
Thomas answered.
“Malcolm Reeves.”
The silence afterward felt physical.
I stared at him.
“That’s impossible.”
“Victor had an affair with Malcolm’s mother when they both worked for Ashford.”
Arthur sank into a chair.
“Eleanor never knew.”
“I think she did.”
Thomas reached into his jacket and removed a flash drive.
“Michael knew. He kept records.”
Nora took it.
“Why were you attacked?”
“Because somebody knew Michael gave those records to me.”
“Who attacked you?”
“Two men grabbed me in the parking garage.”
“Did you recognize them?”
“No.”
“What did they want?”
“This drive.”
I looked at the bruises on his face.
“You still have it.”
“They took the decoy.”
Arthur almost smiled.
Thomas continued.
“Michael believed Victor protected Malcolm during the fraud investigation because Malcolm was his son. Victor took responsibility for transactions Malcolm approved.”
That explained the missing appendix.
It could prove Malcolm had been more involved than Grandmother believed.
But why would Daniel care?
Then Nora plugged the drive into an offline laptop.
Folders appeared.
Scanned letters.
Bank records.
Family correspondence.
One video file.
We opened it.
Michael Prescott appeared on screen.
Older.
Ill.
Speaking directly to Thomas.
“If you’re watching this, then someone has started fighting over the Ashford records again.”
He coughed.
“There’s one thing Victor never understood. Eleanor Ashford didn’t ruin him. Malcolm did.”
I leaned closer.
Michael continued.
“Malcolm designed the invoice scheme. Victor joined later. When auditors closed in, Malcolm convinced Victor to take primary responsibility. In exchange, Malcolm promised to take care of Daniel and the family.”
Nora whispered, “Oh my God.”
The video continued.
“Years later, Malcolm secretly financed Daniel’s first developments. Victor thought it was repayment.”
Prescott Development.
Daniel’s so-called self-made empire.
It had been financed from both sides.
Ashford Venture Partners unknowingly held equity.
Malcolm Reeves secretly arranged additional capital.
Daniel had spent his entire career standing on money he didn’t understand.
Then Michael delivered the final piece.
“Daniel eventually learned Malcolm was his half-brother.”
I froze.
Daniel knew.
“Once Daniel discovered the truth, the two of them began planning how to gain control over Ashford-linked properties through Claire.”
My skin prickled.
Not Daniel alone.
Daniel and Malcolm.
Everything shifted.
Malcolm recognizing me publicly at the gala.
Tracing the missing money.
Helping remove Daniel.
Had it been genuine?
Or damage control?
Nora’s phone rang.
She answered.
Her face drained of color.
“What?”
She listened.
Then looked at me.
“Malcolm Reeves has called an emergency meeting of the Harrington board.”
“So?”
“He’s accusing you of orchestrating the Prescott fraud.”
I almost laughed.
Then she continued.
“He claims you secretly controlled Prescott Development and used Daniel as a front.”
Arthur stood.
“That’s absurd.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
Nora turned the laptop toward us.
Financial news channels were already showing the headline.
ASHFORD HEIRESS UNDER INVESTIGATION? HARRINGTON CEO ALLEGES MASSIVE CONFLICT OF INTEREST
Daniel had threatened that this wasn’t over.
May you like
Now I finally understood why.
My husband had never been working alone.
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