PART 4

“They’re gone too.”

I froze.

“That’s impossible.”

“No,” he said.

“It’s worse than impossible.”

“What do you mean?”

“We found the deletion logs.”

I held my breath.

“Whose credentials were used?”

Another silence.

Then he said the words that made my blood run cold.

“Yours.”

For several seconds, I couldn’t speak.

My hand tightened around the phone.

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“That can’t be right.”

“I know.”

The board chairman’s voice was unusually quiet.

“That’s why I’m calling you before anyone else.”

I got out of bed.

“Tell me exactly what happened.”

“At 6:42 this morning, our IT security system flagged unusual activity on the accounting server. Someone accessed the archived financial records using your credentials.”

“I was asleep.”

“I know.”

“Then someone stole my credentials.”

“That’s our assumption.”

“Who has access?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine.”

I walked toward my desk.

The manila folder was exactly where I had left it.

Except something was wrong.

The folder was open.

I stopped.

I had closed it before leaving the restaurant.

I was certain.

Slowly, I walked closer.

The pages inside were still there.

But the top sheet was missing.

The preliminary forensic accounting review.

The one containing the summary of the transactions.

I touched the remaining papers.

“Someone has been in my house.”

The chairman went silent.

“What?”

“My folder.”

I looked around the room.

Nothing appeared disturbed.

No broken lock.

No open window.

No overturned furniture.

But that somehow made it worse.

Whoever had entered hadn’t come to steal jewelry.

They had come looking for paper.

“I need you to listen carefully,” the chairman said. “Do not go to the office. Do not access the company system from your home computer. And don’t contact Madison.”

“I wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

“What about Daniel?”

Another pause.

“I’d be careful with him too.”

My chest tightened.

“You think Daniel is involved?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I said you should be careful.”

I sat on the edge of the bed.

“Why?”

“Because your credentials were used from a device registered to the executive suite.”

My breathing stopped.

“The executive suite?”

“Yes.”

“Whose computer?”

“We’re still checking.”

I already knew.

“Charles?”

“No.”

“Madison?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

The chairman hesitated.

“Daniel.”

I closed my eyes.

Of course.

For four years, I had built a wall between my professional life and my marriage.

I had never brought confidential company information home.

I never discussed private board matters with Daniel.

But he had always known my passwords for ordinary household accounts.

He knew where I kept my work laptop.

He knew my schedule.

He knew when I was at the office.

And he knew how much I trusted him.

Or, at least, how much I used to.

“Are you certain?” I asked.

“The device used was assigned to Daniel’s executive office.”

I stared at the wall.

“Can you prove he was physically there?”

“No.”

“Then don’t accuse him.”

The chairman sighed.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

I ended the call.

For almost a minute, I sat completely still.

Then I opened my laptop.

I didn’t connect to the company network.

Instead, I opened a personal encrypted drive where I had kept copies of every document related to the investigation.

I had learned long ago that financial records could disappear.

People could lie.

Servers could fail.

Companies could suddenly discover that files had been “misplaced.”

Paper could burn.

But copies could survive.

I entered the password.

The folder opened.

Then I noticed something.

One file was missing.

My heart began pounding.

I had saved a copy of the transaction trail from Meridian Advisory.

It wasn’t there.

I checked the backup.

Nothing.

I checked the external drive.

Nothing.

I checked the cloud storage.

The file had been deleted there too.

Someone hadn’t just accessed the company.

Someone had systematically hunted the evidence.

I reached for my phone.

Before I could make a call, it rang.

Daniel.

I watched his name on the screen.

I didn’t answer.

He called again.

Then again.

Finally, a message appeared.

Please answer. We need to talk.

Another message followed.

Claire, I swear I didn’t know about any of this.

I stared at those words.

I hadn’t told him about the missing files.

I hadn’t told him the board had called.

I hadn’t told him his executive computer had been used.

Yet somehow he knew something was wrong.

I called him.

He answered immediately.

“Claire?”

“Why did you say you didn’t know?”

Silence.

“What?”

“You said you didn’t know about any of this.”

“I meant Madison’s expenses.”

“No.”

I kept my voice calm.

“You said, ‘I swear I didn’t know about any of this.’”

Another silence.

Then:

“Someone told me.”

“Who?”

“Dad.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“What exactly did he tell you?”

Daniel exhaled.

“He said you had turned over financial records.”

“To whom?”

“I don’t know.”

“Daniel.”

“I don’t know!”

His voice cracked.

For the first time since the dinner, I heard genuine fear.

“What happened?” I asked.

“He said the company might be investigated.”

“It might be.”

“And that you’re responsible.”

I almost laughed.

“I’m responsible?”

“He said you violated company confidentiality.”

“Interesting.”

“What?”

“He didn’t tell you the company records were deleted?”

Daniel went quiet.

“How do you know?”

“The board contacted me.”

“What did they say?”

“That someone accessed the accounting system using my credentials.”

He didn’t answer.

“Daniel?”

“I didn’t do it.”

“I didn’t accuse you.”

“But you thought it.”

“I said your office computer was used.”

He breathed in sharply.

“My computer?”

“Yes.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

“Where were you at 6:42 this morning?”

CONTINUE FOR NEXT PART…