Chapter Eight: The Wrong Question

“Because at the time, Camille, I thought you were the one who put it there.”

For several seconds, I stood in the lobby of Whitmore Technologies while people moved around me.

A woman carrying coffee stepped around my shoulder. Two men in suits walked toward the elevators. Somewhere behind the reception desk, a phone rang.

Normal life continued while I tried to decide whether I wanted to scream at Julian Cross or cross-examine him.

The lawyer won.

“Explain.”

“I’d rather do this in person.”

“I’m sure you would.”

“Camille.”

“No. You don’t get to use that voice with me after telling me you’ve been sitting on this for three months.”

“What voice?”

“That calm, reasonable voice you use when you think everyone else is becoming emotional.”

“I don’t have a voice.”

“You absolutely have a voice.”

“I have several. You’ve heard most of them.”

I closed my eyes.

“Julian.”

“There’s that voice again.”

“You are dangerously close to becoming the second man I murder this week.”

“Second?”

“Grant is currently holding first position.”

“Good. I was concerned I’d missed something.”

I hated that a laugh nearly escaped.

I hated him a little more for knowing it.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Leaving Whitmore.”

“Come to my office.”

“No.”

“Your office?”

“No.”

“Coffee?”

“No.”

“Lunch?”

“Julian.”

“I’m giving you options.”

“You can give me an explanation.”

“And I will. Preferably somewhere you aren’t standing in your husband’s lobby looking like you’re considering arson.”

I glanced toward the receptionist.

She immediately looked away.

Damn him.

“Fine. Your office.”

“I’ll have coffee.”

“I don’t want coffee.”

“You’ll drink it anyway.”

“I hope someone overbills you.”

He laughed.

“Twenty minutes.”

I disconnected.

It took twenty-three.

Julian’s office occupied the thirty-second floor of a glass tower downtown, with the kind of understated reception area designed to reassure clients that every six-minute billing increment was being invested wisely.

His assistant smiled when I approached.

“Ms. Monroe.”

Not Mrs. Whitmore.

I noticed.

“Mr. Cross is expecting you.”

“I’m sure he is.”

Her smile widened slightly.

Interesting.

She led me toward a corner office.

Julian stood behind his desk with his jacket off and his sleeves rolled to his forearms.

That was unnecessary.

Completely unnecessary.

I had seen male forearms before.

Many of them.

Some quite impressive.

There was no reason for Julian’s to annoy me.

And yet.

He looked up.

His eyes moved over me once, slowly enough that I noticed and quickly enough that I couldn’t accuse him of anything.

Then he smiled.

“You came.”

“Don’t sound so pleased.”

“I enjoy being right.”

“You must be devastated by how rarely it happens.”

“There’s my girl.”

Everything inside me stopped.

Julian seemed to realize what he’d said at approximately the same moment I did.

Something passed through his expression.

Not embarrassment.

Julian Cross apparently did not possess that particular emotion.

His gaze held mine for one beat too long.

Then he gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

I remained standing.

His mouth twitched.

“Of course.”

“Explain.”

He leaned against the edge of his desk.

Three months ago, he told me, Monroe Capital had requested routine outside-counsel review of amendments related to Whitmore’s credit facility. Julian’s firm handled several matters for Monroe, although Julian himself had not historically been responsible for the Whitmore account.

During that review, another attorney forwarded him a document because of something unusual in the legal-approval section.

My name.

Not merely Camille Whitmore.

Camille Monroe Whitmore, Esq.

The document represented that I had reviewed aspects of an acquisition structure and provided legal guidance concerning permitted adjustments under the credit agreement.

“Which document?”

“The covenant analysis.”

My stomach tightened.

“The same calculation Daniel mentioned yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“And you thought I’d prepared it?”

“I thought you’d participated.”

“Why?”

“Because your name was on it.”

“That’s remarkably lazy analysis.”

“I agree.”

That surprised me.

Julian folded his arms.

“I also knew you were married to Grant. Spouses advise each other all the time, formally and informally. I had no reason at that point to assume your name had been used without permission.”

“So why request the file?”

“Because something bothered me.”

“What?”

“You.”

I stared at him.

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It is. You just don’t like it.”

“Try again.”

Julian pushed away from the desk and walked around it. He opened a drawer, removed a folder, and placed it in front of me.

“I knew you in law school. I knew you when you were a first-year associate. I knew exactly how obsessive you were about documenting advice even before anyone paid you enough to justify the neurosis.”

“I’m not obsessive.”

“You once sent me a three-paragraph email memorializing a conversation about who was responsible for bringing wine to a study group.”

“You forgot the wine.”

“I did not.”

“You brought beer.”

“We were twenty-four.”

“It was cabernet night.”

His mouth curved.

“Some wounds never heal.”

I fought a smile.

He saw it.

Of course he did.

Then his expression became serious again.

“The point is, Camille, the document didn’t sound like you.”

I looked down at the folder.

“How can a covenant calculation sound like me?”

“The assumptions weren’t qualified.”

I looked back up.

He continued.

“You don’t give unqualified answers when the underlying documents control. You say things like, ‘subject to review of the governing agreement,’ or ‘assuming there are no contrary provisions.’”

I stared at him.

“You remember how I write legal advice?”

“I remember a lot of things about you.”

The room suddenly felt warmer.

Julian didn’t smile.

That made it worse.

I looked away first.

“Continue.”

“I requested the larger file. I found additional references to you. Nothing obviously fraudulent. Enough to make me curious.”

“And you still didn’t call.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Privilege. Client obligations. And because if you actually were advising Grant, contacting you independently could have created problems.”

“That isn’t the whole answer.”

“No.”

I waited.

Julian exhaled.

“I also didn’t know what your marriage looked like.”

My spine stiffened.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I didn’t know whether you and Grant were making these decisions together.”

“We were married.”

“That’s not what I said.”

Something about his tone irritated me.

“Then say what you mean.”

His eyes held mine.

“I didn’t know whether you’d become someone who would sign something like that because your husband asked you to.”

The words landed harder than they should have.

I stood straighter.

“You thought I would compromise myself for Grant?”

“I didn’t know.”

“You knew me.”

“Nine years ago.”

“And?”

“And people change.”

I laughed without humor.

“Apparently your opinion of me did.”

His jaw tightened.

“That isn’t fair.”

“Neither is discovering that someone who supposedly knows me looked at questionable legal work carrying my name and thought, Well, maybe Camille does that now.”

“That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.”

Julian stepped closer.

Not enough to crowd me.

Enough that I noticed.

“I saw your name on something that didn’t sound like you. I requested the file because it bothered me. I kept looking because it continued to bother me. If I thought you’d become incompetent or unethical, Camille, I would have closed the file and gone back to billing people who actually appreciate me.”

“Your humility remains inspiring.”

“Thank you.”

“I wasn’t complimenting you.”

“I know.”

I looked at him.

He was doing it again.

Defusing me without dismissing me.

It was infuriating.

And effective.

“What changed three weeks ago?” I asked.

His expression shifted.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The right question.”

I remembered Grant’s words in the elevator.

Ask Julian why he took the Monroe Capital file.

I’d assumed Grant meant Julian’s interest in me.

Grant wanted me focused on Julian.

Not the documents.

“What happened three weeks ago?”

Julian returned to his desk and opened the folder.

“A revised financial package came in from Whitmore.”

He removed two sets of documents and placed them side by side.

“Same reporting period. Same underlying numbers, supposedly.”

I leaned over the desk.

“Supposedly?”

“Look at the adjusted EBITDA calculation.”

I did.

At first, nothing jumped out.

Then I saw it.

A category of acquisition-related expenses had been reclassified between versions.

The adjustment was large enough to affect the leverage ratio.

“That’s the covenant problem.”

“Yes.”

“And the earlier version?”

“Was produced by Whitmore’s finance department before legal review.”

I looked at the second.

“This version makes them compliant.”

“Yes.”

“Who changed it?”

“We don’t know.”

“Who sent it?”

Julian didn’t answer.

My eyes lifted.

“Julian.”

“The revised package came through the legal account created under your name.”

My stomach turned.

“Which means whoever sent it wanted Monroe to believe I approved the adjustment.”

“That is one possibility.”

“What’s another?”

“That the account wasn’t created to impersonate you.”

I frowned.

“What does that mean?”

Julian pulled out another sheet.

“The account predates the altered financial package.”

“By how much?”

“Almost a year.”

I stared at him.

“That makes no sense.”

“I agree.”

“Why create an email account in my name a year before you need it?”

“Exactly.”

My mind began moving.

If the account had existed for nearly a year, then the covenant certification wasn’t necessarily the reason it had been created.

It might simply have been the latest use.

“How many messages?”

“We’re still determining that.”

“To whom?”

“Several internal addresses. A few external.”

“Monroe?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone else?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Julian hesitated.

I felt my temper rise.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Decide what I can handle.”

His face changed.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were about to.”

“No. I was deciding how to tell you without you leaving here and committing a felony.”

“I’ve already threatened murder twice today. We’re beyond caution.”

That earned the smallest smile.

Then it disappeared.

“One external recipient appears repeatedly.”

“Who?”

“A private investment entity.”

“Name?”

“Wellington Strategic Holdings.”

I searched my memory.

Nothing.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“We know.”

“What does it own?”

“We’re working on that.”

I looked back at the documents.

Something nagged at me.

“Why would Grant send financial information to a private investment entity using an account in my name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Does Grant have an interest in Wellington?”

“Not that we’ve found.”

“Vanessa?”

“Not directly.”

“Then who does?”

Julian was quiet.

I looked at him.

“You know.”

“I know one thing.”

“What?”

He slid another document toward me.

It was a wire confirmation.

I read the amount twice.

$750,000.

The sender was Wellington Strategic Holdings.

The recipient was a company I didn’t recognize.

Hawthorne Acquisition Partners.

“What is this?”

“Keep reading.”

I scanned the page.

There was a notation beneath the transaction.

Capital contribution — CMW beneficial interest.

My initials.

My stomach dropped.

“What the hell is CMW beneficial interest?”

“We don’t know.”

“Then why are you showing me this?”

“Because of the date.”

I looked.

Eight months earlier.

The same week as the board consent bearing my signature.

The room became very quiet.

Julian watched me put the pieces together.

Someone had used my name on a legal document.

Someone had created an email account under my identity.

And somewhere, a private investment entity I’d never heard of was moving three quarters of a million dollars while referencing what appeared to be my beneficial interest.

I straightened.

“I need to know what Hawthorne owns.”

“We’re already tracing it.”

“No. I need to know now.”

“Camille.”

“Julian.”

He studied me for a moment.

Then, unexpectedly, he smiled.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“What is funny?”

“You.”

“I just discovered my initials attached to a seven-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar transfer.”

“I know.”

“And that amuses you?”

“No.”

“Then why are you smiling?”

His gaze moved over my face.

“Because twenty minutes ago you were furious with me.”

“I still am.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“And now you’re standing in my office mentally dismantling a corporate structure while you’re furious with me.”

I stared at him.

“Is there a point coming?”

His smile deepened.

“I’d forgotten how attractive you are when you’re trying to destroy an argument.”

My mouth fell open.

Julian turned toward his computer as though he hadn’t just said it.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“You cannot say things like that to me.”

“I just did.”

“I’m married.”

“I am painfully aware.”

I stared at the back of his head.

“Was that flirting?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

“No.”

I narrowed my eyes.

His gaze dropped briefly to my mouth before returning to my eyes.

“When I start flirting with you, Camille, you won’t have to ask.”

Oh.

I picked up my purse.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“You’re extremely confident for a man I’m still considering reporting to Human Resources.”

“You don’t work here.”

“I’ll find a way.”

He laughed.

I made it three steps toward the door before my phone buzzed.

A text.

Vanessa.

I found the original invoice. But there’s something else. Grant had me send copies of my company’s financials to an investment group last year. I didn’t know why at the time.

A second message arrived.

It was called Wellington something.

I stopped.

Julian saw my face.

“What?”

I turned the phone toward him.

His expression changed instantly.

The humor vanished.

He read Vanessa’s message twice.

Then he looked at me.

“Camille.”

“What?”

“Hawthorne Acquisition Partners isn’t just another company.”

My hand tightened around the phone.

“What is it?”

Julian turned his monitor toward me.

A corporate ownership chart filled the screen.

At the bottom was Hawthorne.

Above it sat three entities.

One of them was Cole Brand Strategies.

Vanessa’s company.

I stared at the screen.

Then at Julian.

“Grant doesn’t own Vanessa’s company.”

“No.”

“Vanessa owns it.”

“She thinks she does.”

A cold sensation moved through me.

“What does that mean?”

Julian clicked another document.

The ownership percentage appeared on the screen.

Vanessa Cole: 49%.

Hawthorne Acquisition Partners: 51%.

I stopped breathing.

“Who owns Hawthorne?”

Julian looked at me.

“We don’t know yet.”

My phone buzzed again.

This time it wasn’t Vanessa.

It was Grant.

Whatever Cross is telling you, ask him who paid for Hawthorne.

I looked up slowly.

Julian had seen the message reflected on my face.

“What did he say?”

I handed him the phone.

He read it.

For the first time since I’d walked into his office, Julian Cross looked genuinely surprised.

And that frightened me more than anything else had.

Because Grant hadn’t told me to ask who owned Hawthorne.

He’d told me to ask who paid for it.