CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Isabella's POV

“You're accusing me of changing my own trades to lose money?” I asked after a moment of digesting what Simon had just said. 

Simon's smile did not move.

“I'm not accusing you of anything, Ms. Whitmore. The system shows after-hours amendments to your portfolio. Seven of them. Made from your terminal, late at night, without authorisation. Blackwood takes the integrity of the firm's records seriously.”

The woman from Human Resources wrote something on her notepad. Her badge said Deborah Lin. Her thoughts sounded tired.

I hate these. Nobody ever tells the whole truth in this room. I hate it. 

I unzipped my laptop bag and took out the plain folder.

“Then let's talk about integrity,” I said.

I laid the pages on Simon's glass desk, side by side.

“On the left, Blackwood's internal entries for my portfolio. On the right, the independent confirmations from the broker, sent straight to my email at the moment each trade executed. Blackwood's system has no power to change the broker's emails.”

Deborah Lin leaned forward.

I put my finger on the first pair of pages.

“I bought at forty-one twenty. The broker confirms forty-one twenty. Blackwood's system says forty-one seventy.” I moved to the next pair. “I sold at eighteen ninety. The broker confirms eighteen ninety. Blackwood's system says eighteen forty.”

Seven pairs. Seven differences. Every difference made my numbers worse.

“If I wanted to cheat,” I said, “I would have changed the prices to make myself look better. Not worse.”

Silence came. 

Then I laid down the last three pages.

“This is the audit trail. Analysts have access to the trail for their own portfolios. Every amendment carries a timestamp, a terminal number, and a login.”

I read the lines aloud, one by one.

“Tuesday the fourteenth. Twenty-three forty-two. Terminal forty-one seventeen. User B. Kessler.”

I turned the page.

“Thursday the sixteenth. Twenty-three forty-two. Terminal forty-one seventeen. User B. Kessler.”

The last page.

“Tuesday the twenty-first. Twenty-three forty-two. Terminal forty-one seventeen. User B. Kessler.”

I looked up.

“Terminal forty-one seventeen is my desk. B. Kessler is not my name.”

Deborah Lin stopped writing notes about me.

She turned her chair a few degrees towards Simon. It was a small movement. Everybody in the room saw the movement.

“Mr. Leach,” she said. “Were you aware of these amendments?”

Simon's face had gone smooth and pale. His thoughts were anything but smooth.

The broker side. She checked the broker side. Nobody checks the broker side. Who the hell is this woman?

Then, fast and cold.

Brad. Give them Brad.

“I was not aware,” he said. “If Brad Kessler changed records, he acted alone, and he'll answer for his actions. Frankly, I'm shocked.”

“Then let's ask him,” Deborah said, and picked up the phone.

***

Brad came in two minutes later, smiling. The smile lasted until he saw the pages on the desk.

He knew. I watched him know.

His thoughts came at me loud and fast.

He told me to. He told me to. He said a nudge. He said she'd never check. He said the chairman's friend would cry and quit and nobody would ask. He told me to.

“Brad,” Deborah Lin said. “Ms. Whitmore has shown us seven amendments to her portfolio, made under your login from her terminal after eleven at night. Would you like to explain?”

Brad opened his mouth. Simon looked at him across the desk. It was a steady look. A warning.

Keep your mouth shut, and I'll take care of you.

Brad's jaw worked.

I spoke quietly. One question. Only the one he needed.

“Brad. Were the edits your idea?”

He looked at me.

For a second, I saw the boy he had been before he learned to laugh at people for a living. Scared. Out of his depth. Twenty-eight and sick to his stomach.

Then he broke.

“No.” His voice cracked. “No. Simon told me to. He said she'd never check the broker side. He said a few cents on a few trades, and she'd go home by Christmas. He said nobody would ever look.”

“He's lying,” Simon said. “He's panicking. Look at him.”

“You sent me a message!” Brad pulled out his phone, his hands shaking. “From your personal phone. Tuesday. Late. Her desk. I kept the message. I kept the message because I knew one day you'd do this to me.”

Deborah Lin held out her hand.

Brad gave her the phone.

***

The door opened without a knock.

Julian Cross walked in. No grin today. Shirtsleeves, no tie, and no expression at all.

Behind him, through the glass wall, I saw Tobi Adeyemi at her desk with her phone in her hand, staring hard at her screen.

She had called him.

Julian took one look at the pages on the desk, one look at the phone in Deborah's hand, and one look at Simon.

“Simon,” he said. “You're suspended, effective now. Security will collect your pass and walk you down. Don't touch your computer.”

“Julian, this is absurd. This girl...”

“Ms. Whitmore,” Julian said.

“...is a family friend with a grudge...”

“Ms. Whitmore,” Julian repeated, louder, “has saved this company from a scandal. Sit down, Simon.”

Simon sat.

Julian turned to Brad. “Go home. You're suspended pending review. Leave your laptop. Don't talk to the press, don't talk to the floor, and don't talk to Simon.”

Brad nodded, grey-faced, and walked out.

“Deborah, ask the tech team to lock both accounts and pull every amendment on every portfolio in this division for the last two years.” Julian glanced at me. “Your two-week numbers will be corrected by noon, Ms. Whitmore. You're back in the challenge. You never left.”

He turned for the door.

I rose from my chair. As he passed me, I spoke one quiet sentence, so low only he heard.

“Check Simon's consulting income. Look for Cole Global.”

Julian stopped.

He gave me a long look. His thoughts were sharp and wary under the charm.

Cole Global. Adrian Cole. Nathaniel's had me pulling everything on Adrian Cole since the night of some family dinner. Now his wife walks into my morning and hands me the same name. How does she know?

He did not ask.

“I'll look,” he said, and left.

***

Nathaniel arrived within the hour.

I knew before I saw him. The floor went silent in a wave, desk by desk, from the elevators to the windows.

The chairman. On this floor.

I've never seen him up here.

Is he firing all of us?

He did not shout. He did not slam a door. He walked across the floor in a dark suit with his hands in his pockets and spoke to Julian outside Simon's empty office in a low voice.

His calm frightened the room more than any shouting. Kyle had stopped breathing. Owen had found something fascinating on the carpet.

Then Nathaniel turned his head.

“Ms. Whitmore. Conference room B. Please.”

Forty pairs of eyes followed me across the floor.

The conference room blinds were already down. He closed the door behind me and stood with his back against the door.

For a long moment, he only looked at me.

“Why didn't you tell me?” he asked.

“Because you'd have saved me.” I lifted my chin. “And everyone would say I won because you did.”

He considered the answer. I watched him turn the words over, the way he had turned over my terms in the study.

“Fair,” he said.

Something in my chest unknotted.

“But next time,” he added, “tell me afterwards. When you've already won. I'd like to enjoy the story.”

I laughed despite myself. “Deal.”

He did not smile but his eyes did.

“Julian says you told him to look at Simon's consulting income.”

My heart skipped. “A hunch.”

“You don't strike me as a woman who runs on hunches.”

“Then call the hunch research.”

He studied me in silence. I braced for the next question.

But the next question never came.

“My father hummed at breakfast this morning,” he said instead. “He never hums. I blame you.”

Heat flooded my face. “I blame the bear.”

The corner of his mouth lifted as he opened the door for me.

***

At half past eleven, two security guards walked Simon Leach across the floor towards the elevators. He carried a cardboard box with a framed photograph and a plant in the box. He held his head high.

His route passed my desk.

He stopped and the guards stopped behind him.

Then he bent down until his mouth was beside my ear. His aftershave smelled of cedar and money.

“Ask your husband,” he murmured, “about Serena Vance.”