Chapter 9 - THE BLACK CARD
The black card had always looked unimpressive.
Matte plastic.
No logo.
No visible name.
Chloe had picked it up from the marble floor and tossed it aside because she assumed anything valuable needed diamonds on it.
She had no idea that card opened executive floors across twenty-seven Arden properties.
More importantly, every use was logged.
Every attempted use.
Every location.
Every time.
Malcolm placed six months of access records in front of me.
My card had been used nine times when I was nowhere near the property.
Dominic.
Three visits to the Grand Aurelia.
Two to Arden’s corporate offices.
One to a records facility in New Jersey.
Three failed attempts at my father’s private office level.
“How?” I asked.
“You kept the card in your purse?”
“Yes.”
“Did Dominic ever take your car?”
“Sometimes.”
“And your purse remained home?”
Sometimes.
My stomach tightened.
The marriage I remembered was being reconstructed through security logs.
Tuesday, 3:12 p.m.
The day I had prenatal yoga.
Dominic told me he was at a client meeting.
Instead, my card entered Arden headquarters.
January 17.
He told me he was buying paint for the nursery.
He spent forty-two minutes inside an executive records annex.
Christmas Eve.
While I helped Eleanor prepare dinner, Dominic disappeared for an hour because of a “work call.”
My card attempted access to my father’s office.
The cruelty of the Rourkes suddenly looked different.
Maybe every holiday insult had served a purpose.
Keep Vivienne distracted.
Keep her doubting herself.
Keep her away from her purse.
I hated how paranoid that sounded.
Then Malcolm showed me security footage.
Christmas Eve.
Dominic.
My black card.
No paranoia.
Just evidence.
“What did he access?”
“A corporate directory. Historical acquisition summaries. Publicly reportable holdings.”
“Anything about Bellweather?”
“Potentially.”
My father stared at the screen.
“He was looking for proof.”
“Proof of what?”
“That I planned Bellweather’s collapse.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
He answered without hesitation.
I believed him.
But believing someone because you love them had recently become less comforting.
“Show me.”
My father looked confused.
“Show you everything.”
“Vivienne—”
“No.”
I turned to Serena.
“I want the Bellweather files.”
My father looked wounded.
“You think I’m lying?”
“I think I spent four years trusting someone without checking facts.”
That landed.
I softened my voice.
“I love you.”
He nodded.
“But?”
“But love is not an audit.”
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he smiled.
“Definitely your mother.”
He gave Serena permission.
For the next six hours, I read.
Original budgets.
Emails.
Audit memoranda.
Contractor bids.
My father’s notes.
The evidence supported his version.
Altered projections.
Hidden environmental costs.
Strange payments to a consultant owned by Richard’s college roommate.
One document stood out.
A memo written by an Arden auditor named Michael Tress.
Potential falsification appears directed by R. Rourke. Recommend suspension of funding pending independent investigation.
“What happened to Michael?” I asked.
My father looked at Serena.
“He died.”
“When?”
“Seven years ago.”
“How?”
“Heart attack.”
I stared at the memo.
“So the person who could confirm this is dead.”
“Yes.”
“Who else knew?”
“Several people.”
“Where are they?”
“Some retired.”
“Find them.”
My father raised an eyebrow.
I looked at him.
“You wanted me involved in the company one day.”
His mouth twitched.
“Not under these circumstances.”
“Circumstances don’t usually ask permission.”
By evening, Malcolm located two former auditors.
One lived in Arizona.
The other in Vermont.
Both remembered Bellweather.
Both agreed to speak.
Then Serena discovered something strange.
The $7 million Richard had moved overnight had not gone directly offshore.
It had gone through a consulting firm.
Caldwell Strategic Advisory.
I recognized the surname.
“Caldwell?”
Serena nodded.
“Eleanor’s maiden name.”
“Family company?”
“Owned by her brother.”
So Eleanor was not merely a cruel mother-in-law standing beside Richard.
She was part of the financial architecture.
“How much money has Rourke Development paid Caldwell?”
Serena scrolled.
“Over five years?”
“Yes.”
“Approximately eleven million.”
“For what?”
“Strategic consulting.”
My father laughed softly.
“That usually means nothing.”
“Can we trace it?”
“We can.”
Then Malcolm’s phone rang.
He stepped away.
When he returned, his expression was hard.
“Dominic is downstairs.”
I felt tired rather than afraid.
“What does he want?”
“To see Vivienne.”
“No.”
Malcolm nodded.
“He says he has evidence against Richard.”
That changed the room.
My father looked at me.
I looked at Serena.
“Does he have a lawyer?”
“No.”
“Then tell him to get one.”
Malcolm started toward the door.
“Wait.”
I hated myself a little for what came next.
“Bring him up.”
My father frowned.
“Vivienne.”
“He says he has evidence.”
“He could send it.”
“He came here.”
I placed both hands over my stomach.
“I want to know why.”
Ten minutes later, Dominic entered.
He looked worse.
Unshaven.
No tie.
Dark circles beneath his eyes.
He carried a flash drive.
He placed it on the table.
“My father has been moving money for years.”
Serena did not touch it.
“What is on the drive?”
“Bank records.”
“Obtained how?”
Dominic laughed bitterly.
“You’re worried about that now?”
“Yes.”
She was impossible not to admire.
Dominic looked at me.
“I copied them from Richard’s office.”
“Why?”
“Because he’s going to blame everything on me.”
My father leaned back.
“Is he wrong?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“I did terrible things.”
At least that was new.
“But I did not create this.”
He pointed toward the drive.
“My father did.”
I watched him.
“Why should I trust you?”
“You shouldn’t.”
That answer surprised me.
Dominic pushed the drive forward.
“But you should verify me.”
May you like
For once…
We agreed.
