Olivia identified Natalie immediately.
“Yes. Chicago.”
We spoke through a secure video call with Olivia’s attorney beside her.
“How did Victor meet her?” Foster asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Did he ever mention her surname?”
“No. He called her Natalie Brooks.”
“How long were they involved?”
“Longer than me, I think.”
“Did Victor know her real identity?”
Olivia shook her head.
“I don’t think so.”
I watched her carefully.
“What did he tell you about her?”
“Nothing. I found photographs.”
“Messages?”
“A few.”
“What kind?”
“Mostly personal.”
“Mostly?”
Olivia looked at her attorney.
He nodded.
“She asked questions.”
“What questions?”
“About Victor’s old business.”
Foster leaned closer.
“Specific questions?”
“Names. Companies. People he used to work with.”
“Reed?”
“Yes.”
“Jonathan Pierce?”
“Yes.”
“Andrew Morrow?”
Olivia’s expression changed.
“Yes.”
“What did Victor say about Andrew?”
“That he was dead.”
“Anything else?”
“That he had been his friend.”
I thought about Victor’s interview.
Andrew was better than I was.
Perhaps guilt had made Victor vulnerable to Natalie.
Perhaps she knew exactly which wound to touch.
“Did Natalie ever ask about me?”
Olivia hesitated.
“Yes.”
“What?”
“Your schedule.”
My skin prickled.
“What kind of schedule?”
“Travel. Charity events. Whether you worked from home.”
“Why?”
“She told Victor she wanted to avoid running into you.”
That explanation would have pleased Victor.
His affairs were structured around secrecy.
He would have interpreted her questions as caution.
“Did she ask about my house?”
“Yes.”
“Security?”
“I don’t know.”
“Staff?”
“Maybe.”
Foster asked, “Did Victor ever bring Natalie there?”
Olivia shook her head.
“I don’t know.”
But she had not needed Victor to escort her inside if she possessed Jonathan’s guest code.
The possibility formed slowly.
“What if Natalie poisoned the tea?”
Foster did not answer immediately.
“She had motive to enter your life.”
“Not necessarily to hurt me.”
“No.”
“What if I was never the target?”
Olivia frowned.
“What do you mean?”
I thought back to that evening.
Victor had made the tea.
Or I believed he had.
I remembered him bringing the tray from the kitchen.
But had he prepared it?
There had been a charity planning meeting at the house that afternoon.
Several people had come and gone.
A catering service.
Flowers.
Deliveries.
The kitchen had not been secure.
“Maybe the point was not to kill me.”
Foster nodded slowly.
“To create symptoms.”
“Exactly.”
The same method Jonathan may have used.
The same method Reed once used on Victor.
A signature.
A warning.
A message to anyone who knew the old story.
Olivia whispered, “Natalie knew.”
“Knew what?”
“What happened to her father.”
Of course.
Andrew Morrow’s daughter had grown up with a dead father and a story nobody publicly told.
“How old was she when Andrew died?”
Foster checked.
“Eleven.”
Old enough to remember.
Old enough to spend twenty years asking questions.
At four thirty, investigators located Natalie’s real apartment in Chicago.
It was nearly empty.
No luxury furniture.
No evidence she had lived the life Victor believed he financed.
The expensive gifts he purchased were gone.
But investigators found something else.
A wall covered with photographs.
Victor.
Reed.
Jonathan.
Peter.
Old fund partners.
Corporate structures.
Newspaper clippings about Andrew’s death.
Copies of regulatory filings.
Ashford.
Me.
Even Eleanor.
Natalie had been investigating all of them.
“She built her own case,” I said.
Foster nodded.
“For years.”
“Then why seduce Victor?”
“Access.”
The same reason everyone else had entered my life.
Access.
At five ten, Natalie’s laptop was recovered from a storage unit.
Encrypted.
Federal technicians began working on it.
Her phone remained dark.
No credit cards.
No vehicle registered in her real name.
She had prepared to disappear.
“She knew yesterday was coming,” I said.
“Likely.”
“Did she know Peter was running?”
“We don’t know.”
“What about Jonathan?”
“We know she went to his hotel.”
“To kill him?”
“He’s alive.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No.”
At five forty-seven, Jonathan regained consciousness.
Daniel was at the hospital.
Foster interviewed him remotely after doctors allowed ten minutes.
Jonathan looked terrible.
His voice was weak.
But when Foster said Natalie Morrow, his eyes opened wider.
“You know her,” Foster said.
“Yes.”
“How?”
“She contacted me two years ago.”
“Under which name?”
“Her real one.”
“Why?”
“She wanted records about her father.”
“Did you give them to her?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Confidential.”
I almost laughed when Daniel relayed that word.
Jonathan Pierce, whose credentials had accessed my trust without authorization, had apparently discovered professional ethics at a convenient moment.
“Did she threaten you?”
“Yes.”
“With what?”
“Exposure.”
“Of your involvement in the old fund?”
“Yes.”
“Were you involved?”
Jonathan looked toward Daniel.
Shame crossed his face.
“I drafted documents.”
“Did you know the transactions were criminal?”
“Eventually.”
“Did you tell Daniel?”
“No.”
Daniel looked away.
“Did you know Andrew Morrow was going to regulators?”
“Yes.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Did you arrange his death?”
“No.”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did Reed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Victor?”
“No.”
That answer was immediate.
“How can you be sure?”
“Victor was with me when Andrew died.”
Another piece.
Victor could not have personally caused the crash.
Not that it cleared him of anything else.
“Did you drug Claire Langley?”
Jonathan’s face changed.
“No.”
“Did you suggest doing so?”
He closed his eyes.
“Yes.”
I felt anger rise.
“Why?”
Foster asked.
“Because Victor needed leverage.”
“To seize her shares?”
“Temporary voting authority.”
“Did you intend her death?”
“No.”
“Did you suggest permanent incapacity?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“I said it would simplify the trust issue.”
“That is not an answer.”
“No.”
“Then answer.”
He swallowed.
“I discussed what would happen if she died.”
I stood away from the monitor.
Hearing it from Victor had been one thing.
Hearing the man who designed the idea admit it was another.
“Did you intend to kill her?”
“No.”
“Who drugged her the first time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you give Victor the sedative he used?”
“Yes.”
There it was.
Jonathan supplied the second dose.
Victor administered it.
Separate acts.
Shared responsibility.
“Where did you get it?”
“Peter.”
Foster’s expression sharpened.
“Peter knew about the method?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Reed.”
Reed had lied.
Again.
“Why did Peter give it to you?”
“He said Claire only needed to appear medically unstable.”
“Did Peter ever suggest killing her?”
“No.”
“Rebecca?”
“No.”
“Natalie?”
“I never discussed Claire with Natalie.”
“Then why did Natalie drug you last night?”
Jonathan’s face tightened.
“She wanted the agreement.”
“Did you have it?”
“No.”
“Who does?”
“Peter.”
“How did he get it?”
Jonathan breathed carefully.
“I gave it to him.”
“Why?”
“Because I thought he was protecting us.”
“From Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“Was he?”
“No.”
“What was he doing?”
“Building leverage.”
“Against Reed?”
“Against everyone.”
“Where is Peter now?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was he going after New York?”
Jonathan hesitated.
“Natalie.”
Foster leaned forward.
“He was meeting Natalie?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To trade.”
“What?”
“The agreement.”
“For?”
“Evidence.”
“What evidence?”
Jonathan looked directly into the camera.
“Proof of who killed Andrew.”
The room became silent.
Natalie had spent twenty years pursuing one question.
Peter possessed the agreement.
Natalie possessed evidence about her father’s death.
Each had something the other wanted.
“What proof?” Foster asked.
“Recording.”
“Of whom?”
“I don’t know.”
“Peter knows?”
“Yes.”
“Where is the meeting?”
“I don’t know.”
“You traveled with him.”
“To New York.”
“And Rebecca?”
“She came because Peter threatened her.”
That explained Rebecca’s strange behavior.
“With what?”
“Evidence she helped falsify Claire’s documents.”
“So she was involved willingly before that.”
“Yes.”
“But she returned to Boston.”
“Peter told her to finish the board transaction.”
“Why?”
“To keep everyone focused on Ashford.”
A diversion.
While Peter pursued something more valuable.
The old agreement.
Natalie’s recording.
“What did Peter intend to do after the trade?”
Jonathan closed his eyes.
“I don’t know.”
Foster did not believe him.
Neither did I.
“Jonathan.”
He looked toward Daniel.
Perhaps seeing his old friend made lying harder.
“I think he planned to kill her.”
Daniel whispered, “Jesus.”
“Why?”
“Because once Peter had the recording, Natalie had no value.”
“Did Natalie know?”
“She isn’t stupid.”
“No.”
“She probably planned the same thing.”
Two people approaching a meeting, each assuming betrayal.
“Where?”
Foster pressed.
“I don’t know.”
“Think.”
Jonathan closed his eyes.
Then said, “Andrew’s grave.”
“What?”
“Peter asked where Andrew was buried.”
Foster was already moving.
“Where?”
“Sleepy Hollow.”
New York.
Agents were dispatched.
I remained in Boston.
Again.
Every instinct wanted movement, but there was nothing useful I could do by physically standing in another state.
At seven twelve, investigators reached the cemetery.
No Natalie.
No Peter.
But they found evidence someone had been there.
Fresh tire marks.
A discarded cigarette.
And an envelope beneath a stone near Andrew Morrow’s grave.
Addressed to:
CLAIRE ASHFORD LANGLEY.
My full legal name.
The name I rarely used.
Natalie knew exactly who I was.
Agents photographed the envelope before opening it.
Inside was a flash drive and a handwritten note.
If you are reading this, Peter has the agreement.
Do not trust Reed.
Do not trust Pierce.
Do not trust Victor.
That list contained no surprises.
Then the next line did.
My father did not die because he went to regulators.
He died because he discovered who really owned the money.
I read it twice.
“What does that mean?”
Foster shook her head.
The flash drive was transported to a secure field office.
At eight oh-six, technicians opened it.
Audio files.
Scanned documents.
Photographs.
One recording dated twenty years earlier.
Andrew Morrow’s voice.
I had never heard it before.
He sounded younger than I expected.
Nervous.
He was speaking to someone whose voice was partially obscured.
Andrew said the offshore money did not belong to Reed.
Reed was only managing it.
The other person asked who the beneficial owner was.
Andrew answered with a company name.
Ashford Biomedical Ventures.
My heart stopped.
“That was one of my grandfather’s companies.”
Daniel stared at the transcript.
“What happened to it?”
“It was dissolved before Ashford Medical went public.”
“Who controlled it?”
“My grandfather.”
The room became silent.
The old fund.
Reed.
Victor.
Jonathan.
Andrew.
All somehow connected to my family decades before Victor ever met me.
Andrew continued.
He believed money had been siphoned from Ashford Biomedical through investment structures and hidden offshore.
Hundreds of millions.
Possibly more.
The fund was not merely laundering outside money.
It had been stealing from my family.
“My grandfather would have known.”
“Maybe,” Foster said.
“Or someone around him.”
The recording continued.
Andrew said he had discovered a beneficial ownership schedule identifying the person who authorized the transfers.
Then the audio cut.
“What name?”
I demanded.
“Where is the rest?”
Technicians checked.
Another file existed.
Encrypted.
A password prompt appeared.
The handwritten note contained one final line.
The password is the name Victor was supposed to tell you before he married you.
I stared at it.
“What name?”
No one knew.
Except perhaps Victor.
Foster arranged the call.
He came on ten minutes later.
I did not wait for introductions.
“Natalie left me a recording.”
Victor’s face changed.
“She’s alive?”
“As far as we know.”
“What recording?”
“Andrew.”
Victor went pale.
“What does the password mean?”
He looked toward his attorney.
Then back at the camera.
“What did she write?”
“The name you were supposed to tell me before we married.”
Victor closed his eyes.
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then I understood.
“You know.”
“Yes.”
“What name?”
His voice came out almost inaudibly.
“Claire.”
“What name?”
He opened his eyes.
“Your father’s.”
My throat tightened.
“My father died when I was twenty-three.”
“I know.”
“What does he have to do with this?”
“More than I ever told you.”
“Victor.”
His eyes filled with something I had never seen from him before.
Not fear for himself.
Shame.
“Your father was the reason Andrew started investigating.”
I could barely hear my own voice.
“Why?”
“Because Andrew believed your father discovered the missing Ashford money first.”
I stared at the screen.
My father had died after a sudden heart attack.
At home.
No investigation.
No suspicion.
Nothing anyone had ever considered unusual.
“How did you know my father?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how do you know this?”
“Andrew told me.”
“When?”
“Before he died.”
“What did he say?”
Victor swallowed.
“That your father confronted someone inside Ashford.”
“Who?”
“He never told me.”
“Then what is the password?”
Victor looked down.
“Thomas.”
My father’s first name.
Technicians entered it.
The encrypted file opened.
A second recording appeared.
Shorter.
Andrew’s voice.
He said one sentence.
Then named the person he believed had authorized the original theft.
I stopped breathing.
Because I knew the name.
Everyone in my family had known it.
The man had attended my father’s funeral.
He had comforted my mother.
He had helped protect my Ashford inheritance.
He had remained beside the company for decades.
Arthur Denning.
Click here to continue reading: PART 13: Arthur Denning Had Protected My Family for Decades, but Andrew Morrow’s Recording Made Every Kindness He Ever Showed Me Look Different
My Husband Thought One Cruel Message Would Leave Me Penniless, but He Had No Idea What I Had Already Prepared
Part 12 of 22
