Chapter Thirty-Six: The Interview

Felix found Claire Bennett before I asked him to.

He brought her file to my office on a Tuesday morning. A photograph. A resume. Three pages of notes. He set it on my desk and stepped back like he expected me to throw it.

"She's been investigating Henry for two years," he said. "She's careful. She's thorough. She hasn't published anything yet because she can't verify her sources."

I opened the file. Claire Bennett. Thirty-two. Columbia graduate. Former financial analyst. Now an investigative journalist for a magazine that didn't print gossip. Only facts.

"Can we trust her?"

"I don't know. But she's not connected to Henry. She's not connected to Volkov. She's not connected to anyone who could hurt us."

I closed the file. "Set up a meeting."

We met at a hotel bar two blocks from her office. Public. Neutral. No one would look twice at two women having drinks.

She was already there when I arrived. Dark hair pulled back. Simple blazer. She didn't stand when I approached. She just watched me sit.

"You're younger than I expected," she said.

"So are you."

She almost smiled. Almost.

She pulled out a recorder. She set it on the table but didn't turn it on.

"Off the record first," she said. "Why me?"

"Because you ask the right questions."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're getting."

She studied me. Then she turned on the recorder.

"Let's start from the beginning."

The interview lasted two hours.

She asked about my mother. About Julian. About Adrian. About the trust fund. About the article she was going to write.

I answered what I could. I deflected what I couldn't. I gave her enough to build a story but not enough to expose everything.

When we finished, she turned off the recorder.

"You're holding back," she said.

"I'm protecting myself."

"From what?"

"From people who've spent thirty years getting away with murder."

She didn't flinch. She just nodded.

"I'll have a draft by Friday," she said.

"I'll read it before it goes to print."

"That's not how journalism works."

"It is now."

She looked at me. I looked at her.

"Fine," she said.

The article ran the following Wednesday.

The Voss Conspiracy: A Daughter's Fight for Justice.

I read it standing at my office window. Felix stood behind me. He didn't speak.

The piece was good. Claire had done her homework. She'd connected the trust fund to the shell companies. She'd connected the shell companies to Henry. She hadn't accused him directly—not yet—but she'd raised questions that would be impossible to answer without admitting guilt.

By noon, it had been shared eight thousand times. By three, Ashford Holdings stock had dropped fourteen percent. By five, two board members had resigned.

I set the article down.

"He's going to retaliate," Felix said.

"I know."

"What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing. Let him make the first move."

Julian called at nine that night.

I was in my office. I was reviewing the latest financial reports. My phone buzzed. I saw his name. I answered.

"You did this."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"The article. The questions. The resignations. You did this."

"Prove it."

He was breathing hard. I could hear it through the phone.

"You're going to regret this," he said.

"I've heard that before."

"You think Kane can protect you? He can't. Not from me."

I didn't respond. I just waited.

"You're going to lose everything. Just like I did."

"No," I said. "I'm going to take everything. Just like you took everything from me."

I hung up. I set the phone on my desk. I didn't move.

Felix appeared in my doorway. "Everything okay?"

"Julian. He's panicking."

"Good."

"Yes. But panicking men do desperate things."

The package arrived the next morning.

Felix brought it to me. A small box. White paper. No return address. Security had scanned it. It was clean.

I opened it.

Inside was a photograph. My mother. Standing in a garden I didn't recognize. She was smiling. She looked happy.

On the back, in Julian's handwriting: You're not the only one who remembers.

I set the photograph down. My hands were steady.

"Where did this come from?" Felix asked.

"I don't know. But he's trying to scare me."

"Is it working?"

I looked at the photograph. My mother's face. Her smile. The life she never got to live.

"No," I said. "It's not."