Chapter Seven

KAEL

By the time I left Serena’s apartment, I had more questions than answers—and the growing suspicion that she was a problem I couldn’t solve with money, influence, or a well-timed threat.

She had asked whether I thought her father was responsible for what happened to Vivienne. When I admitted I didn’t know, she hadn’t looked relieved. She’d looked disappointed, as if she wanted an answer even if she hated it.

I understood that feeling. Eight years was a long time to live with unanswered questions. Long enough for grief to harden into anger and a person’s name to become something you avoided saying.

Vivienne’s name had done that to me.

Then Serena Sinclair had walked into my life, and the past had started demanding my attention again.

My phone vibrated as I reached the car.

Damon.

Damon: Please tell me you’re somewhere comfortable.

Me: Why?

Damon: Because what I found is going to ruin your evening.

Me: You have thirty seconds.

He called immediately.

“Talk.”

“I’ve been checking the records you asked for. Martin Keller’s old bank account was accessed this morning. Someone withdrew forty thousand dollars in cash.”

“I know. You sent me the statement.”

“Before I finished checking the account history. The account was originally linked to a subsidiary that had financial dealings with Sinclair Holdings. The subsidiary changed hands years ago, but the account remained connected to the old records.”

“How does an account survive that long without being closed?”

“Bad administration, deliberate negligence, or someone making sure it stays open. Take your pick.”

“Can you identify who withdrew the money?”

“Not from the statement. The transaction used credentials associated with the old subsidiary. I need the bank’s full audit trail.”

“Request it.”

“Already started. Don’t expect an answer tonight.”

Martin Keller had disappeared around the time Vivienne died. Now someone had used an account bearing his name to withdraw a considerable amount of money.

Keller could be alive. Someone could be using his identity. Or the transaction could be unrelated, made suspicious only because we were looking for connections.

I hated that all three possibilities made sense.

“Send me the complete history,” I said. “Every transaction, ownership change, and authorization.”

“On its way.”

“And don’t contact Sinclair Holdings yet.”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Good.”

“Kael?”

“What?”

“Try not to accuse anyone of murder before breakfast.”

“I’ll put it on my calendar.”

He laughed and ended the call.

Forty thousand dollars. An account connected to a missing man. A subsidiary tied to the Sinclair family.

It was a lead, not proof.

I drove home.

⸻

The following morning, I arrived at Blackwell Group early and reviewed the surviving records for the old subsidiary. Most were incomplete, and nothing directly connected Richard Sinclair to the withdrawal. His company’s name appeared in the subsidiary’s history, but the relationship was old and the ownership structure had changed more than once.

I wasn’t prepared to turn a business connection into an accusation—not even for Serena.

That thought irritated me. She was stubborn, suspicious, and far too comfortable challenging me, yet I was already considering her opinion when making decisions that had nothing to do with her.

My phone rang.

Victor.

“You’re awake,” he said.

“It’s eleven in the morning.”

“With you, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“What do you want?”

“To know whether you’re coming to dinner.”

I glanced at the files on my desk. “Was that an invitation or an order?”

“An invitation. I reserve the orders for when you’re being particularly difficult.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He laughed. “Come over, Kael. Your aunt has been asking when she’ll see you. You haven’t visited properly in weeks.”

“I was there last month.”

“You stayed for forty minutes.”

“Forty-five.”

“Ah, well. That changes everything.”

Despite myself, I smiled.

Victor had raised me after my parents died. He remembered what I liked for dinner, noticed when I was overworking, and could turn a simple invitation into an argument he somehow won.

“Fine. I’ll be there this evening.”

“Seven o’clock.”

“I said this evening, not that you could schedule my entire day.”

“Seven thirty, then.”

He hung up before I could respond.

⸻

At seven thirty, I arrived at the Blackwell estate.

Victor was waiting in the library. After a brief embrace and the usual argument about how tired I looked, we discussed a company investment before he noticed the folder I’d brought.

“Is that the old financial matter?”

“Part of it.”

I explained what Damon had found.

Victor studied the documents. “Martin Keller. I remember him. Quiet, competent. His name came up during a few internal reviews.”

“When did you last hear from him?”

“Years ago.”

“He disappeared around the time Vivienne died.”

Victor’s expression tightened. “Have you found evidence that Keller and Vivienne knew each other?”

“Not yet.”

“Then don’t assume their disappearances are connected simply because the dates are close.”

“I know.”

“Do you? You have a habit of finding two things that don’t make sense separately and deciding they must explain each other.”

“The account is suspicious.”

“It is. But suspicion isn’t proof.”

I nodded. He was right.

“Do you remember the subsidiary?”

“Not specifically. Blackwell Group went through several restructurings. Some entities were absorbed, others sold or dissolved.”

“Could an account remain active after a subsidiary changed ownership?”

“It could, if the records weren’t properly updated.”

“And deliberate access?”

“That depends on who retained the credentials.”

He tapped the statement. “Have your people reviewed the access history?”

“Damon is working on it.”

“Good. Follow the records before you decide who’s guilty.”

Victor closed the folder.

“Is there anything else?”

I hesitated. “Serena told me something about Vivienne. She visited Eleanor two days before the accident and was frightened enough to ask Eleanor to take Serena out of New York.”

Victor’s expression shifted from concern to sadness.

“She asked Eleanor to leave with Serena?”

“Yes.”

“I wish I’d known how frightened she was.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. By then, Vivienne and I weren’t close. We argued about the company, money, and decisions we’d made when we were younger. Neither of us was good at letting things go.”

“Did you ever find out what she was worried about?”

“Not properly.”

“Serena believes Vivienne was trying to protect her.”

“Perhaps she was. Vivienne cared about that girl. She always did.”

He looked toward the dark windows.

“Whatever happened between Vivienne and me, she loved you, too. I know that much.”

The words brought back a memory of Vivienne in this library, laughing as I tried to repair a broken model airplane. Victor had accused us of making a mess, and she’d thrown a cushion at him.

For a moment, I remembered what life had felt like before everything became complicated.

“Do you think she was involved in something dangerous?” I asked.

“Vivienne could be reckless when she believed something was wrong. She wasn’t the sort of person who could discover a problem and walk away from it.”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like I knew her well enough to understand that she might have put herself in a difficult position. But I don’t know what that position was.”

For years, I’d believed Vivienne had betrayed the people who trusted her and suffered the consequences. Now Serena was telling me that her mother had been frightened and trying to protect her.

Both versions couldn’t explain everything.

“I want to know what happened,” I said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want anyone deciding what I’m allowed to find out.”

“Then find out,” Victor said. “Just don’t let your grief decide the answer before the evidence does.”

He wasn’t asking me to stop or telling me to leave the past alone. He was reminding me to follow the facts.

“Whatever you uncover,” he added, “you don’t have to carry it alone.”

I nodded. I trusted Victor. That wasn’t something I questioned lightly, and I had nothing concrete to support suspicion against him.

“Now come and eat,” he said. “Your aunt has threatened to send someone looking for us.”

“And if you criticize the food, you’re washing the dishes.”

“I run a multinational company.”

“And I own a dishwasher. Don’t test me.”

I laughed, and for a little while, the past stayed where it belonged.

⸻

Damon called just after ten while I was driving home.

“Tell me you have something.”

“I have something. Whether you’ll like it is another matter.”

“You’re becoming very fond of that opening line.”

“I’m developing a brand.”

“Get to it.”

“The account’s permissions weren’t simply left active after the subsidiary changed hands. Someone renewed them several times.”

I sat straighter. “When was the most recent renewal?”

“Six months ago. The account was accessed, the permissions were renewed, and the transaction went through yesterday. Whoever did this wasn’t stumbling across an old record.”

“Can you identify them?”

“Not yet. The renewal went through a legacy administrative account belonging to someone who left the company years ago. I’m still verifying the identity.”

“Can the access be traced through the network?”

“Possibly. It came through an internal connection, but that doesn’t tell us whether it was a current employee, a former employee using retained credentials, or someone who gained access another way.”

“Keep digging. I want the original records, renewal dates, and everyone who had administrative access.”

“Already working on it.”

“And the bank’s audit trail?”

“No response yet.”

“Follow up in the morning.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t contact Richard Sinclair until we know exactly what we’re asking him. And don’t approach Keller’s former colleagues without checking with me. If someone has been keeping that account active, I don’t want to alert them before we know what they can see.”

“Understood.”

We ended the call.

Six months ago, someone had renewed access to an account connected to a missing man. Yesterday, someone had withdrawn forty thousand dollars from it.

That was our clearest lead.

I wouldn’t accuse Richard Sinclair because his company appeared in an old record, or assume Martin Keller was alive because someone had used his account. This time, I wanted evidence.

When I reached my apartment, an email from Damon was waiting. It contained a preliminary list of employees who had held administrative access to the old subsidiary.

Most of the names were unfamiliar. A few belonged to retirees. One belonged to a man who had died several years earlier.

I read the list twice, then opened Serena’s contact.

My thumb hovered over the call button. I wanted to know whether she had found anything else about Vivienne, but she didn’t owe me answers simply because I wanted them.

I put the phone down and opened my laptop.

Somewhere in those records was a person who knew why the account had remained active.

I intended to find out who.