PART 6
“My father mentioned it once.”
“What did he say?”
“He said it was a consulting company Christopher used for business expenses.”
I stared at her.
“Did you ever meet anyone from the company?”
“No.”
“Did your father?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at me.
“Why?”
I stood.
“Because I think your family has a bigger problem than my clothes.”
Jessica’s face went pale.
“What happened?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Then my phone rang.
It was my attorney.
I answered.
“Thomas.”
“Yes?”
“We traced the offshore account.”
My grip tightened around the phone.
“Who owns it?”
There was a pause.
Then he said:
“Christopher Bradford.”
I looked at Jessica.
She had heard enough from my expression.
“What is it?” she whispered.
I ended the call.
“Your brother.”
Her face crumpled.
“What did he do?”
I looked toward the window.
Boston Harbor was bright under the afternoon sun.
Beautiful.
Calm.
Deceptive.
I turned back to her.
“I think Christopher has been stealing from your father’s company.”
Jessica covered her mouth.
“No.”
“I hope I’m wrong.”
She shook her head.
“He wouldn’t.”
“People do things we never expect.”
“But why?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
She stood.
“I need to tell Michael.”
“Not yet.”
She stared at me.
“Why?”
“Because if Christopher knows we’re investigating him, he’ll have time to destroy the evidence.”
She understood immediately.
“Then what do we do?”
I looked at her.
“We wait.”
“For what?”
“For him to make his next move.”
And somewhere across Boston, Christopher Bradford was about to make exactly the mistake I had been waiting for.
Because that evening, an email arrived in my private inbox.
No greeting.
No signature.
Just one sentence.
If you want your son to marry Jessica, stay away from my family’s business.
I read it twice.
Then I smiled.
Because whoever sent that message had just made one very important mistake.
They had threatened the wrong family.
I read the email a third time.
If you want your son to marry Jessica, stay away from my family’s business.
No signature.
No traceable address.
Most people would have called the police immediately.
I called my attorney instead.
“Don’t reply,” Daniel said. “Whoever sent it wants you emotional.”
“I’m not emotional.”
“No,” he answered. “That’s exactly why they’re in trouble.”
He had already contacted our cybersecurity team. Within an hour they traced the message—not directly to Christopher, but to a laptop that had connected through the Wi-Fi inside Bradford Urban Holdings’ headquarters.
Someone inside Richard’s company had sent it.
That narrowed the list considerably.
A father’s impossible choice
The following morning Richard arrived at my office alone.
Not in the confident way he had entered the country club.
He looked ten years older.
His expensive suit was perfectly pressed, but the man inside it looked exhausted.
My assistant showed him into the conference room overlooking the harbor.
He didn’t sit.
“I know why you asked for the financial records,” he said quietly.
I closed the folder in front of me.
“Do you?”
He nodded.
“There’s money missing.”
“Four million, two hundred thirty thousand dollars.”
His shoulders sank.
“So it’s true.”
“You didn’t know?”
He laughed bitterly.
“For months I convinced myself the numbers were timing differences.”
I slid several documents across the table.
Wire transfers.
Fake consulting invoices.
Offshore accounts.
Each one bore Christopher’s authorization.
Richard stared at the pages.
“My own son…”
He couldn’t finish.
“I need you to answer one question,” I said.
He looked up.
“If Christopher is guilty, will you protect him… or your company?”
He closed his eyes.
“That’s the cruelest question I’ve ever been asked.”
“No.”
I thought of Michael sleeping on a mattress after his bankruptcy.
“No, Richard. The cruelest question is the one life asks every parent.”
He looked at me.
“Do you love your child enough to let them face the consequences of what they’ve done?”
Neither of us spoke.
Finally, Richard whispered,
“I don’t know.”
The engagement dinner
Three nights later Jessica insisted everyone meet again.
“This time,” she told Michael, “there will be no pretending.”
The dinner wasn’t at the country club.
It was at my apartment.
A simple brick building overlooking a small neighborhood park.
I cooked myself.
Roasted chicken.
Mashed potatoes.
Fresh bread.
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