THW BILLIONAIRE WIFE DISAPPEARED

Chapter Three: Working Late

I don't sleep much that night.

I keep pulling the text back up. In the garage. In bed. Again, at six in the morning, before my alarm even goes off, like reading it one more time is going to make it say something different.

Stop looking into the Whitmore file. This is the only warning you'll get.

I don't tell Kingsley. I almost do, twice. Both times something stops me. Partly because he already told me not to talk about the file with anyone, and okay, fine, technically, this isn't me bringing it up. It's some stranger texting me about it. Mostly, if I'm honest with myself, because some stubborn part of me wants to figure out more before I hand the whole mess back to him.

Monday morning, I pull the file first thing.

The gap on page eleven is gone.

Not fixed. Gone. The numbers line up clean, like there was never a problem, like I made the whole thing up over the weekend out of boredom.

I didn't make it up. I took a photo of the page the day I found it, some instinct telling me to, and I pull it up now, checking line by line against what's on my screen.

The margin note is gone, too. No initials. No D.W. Just clean numbers sitting where a four hundred thousand dollar hole used to be.

Somebody went in and fixed it over the weekend.

I'm still sitting there, staring, trying to decide what to do about that, when the intercom buzzes.

Stephanie. My office.

I bring my phone. The photo already pulled up. I don't say anything yet. I just want to see if he brings it up first.

He doesn't. He hands me a folder about some vendor contract instead, gives me three quick instructions, and he's already halfway back to his desk when I cut in.

The Whitmore file's been changed, I say.

He stops. He doesn't turn around right away. Changed how?

The gap's gone, I say. Page eleven. The note's gone, too. I set my phone on his desk, and the photo was still open. I've got this from before, though. Somebody went in and cleaned it up.

He picks up the phone. He looks at it for a long moment, and something moves behind his eyes. I'm starting to recognize it now. Not a surprise. It's more like he's doing math in his head that he doesn't want me to see.

You photographed it, he says. It's not really a question. There's something like approval in it, buried under something tighter.

I didn't know what else to do, I say.

Keep it that way, he says, rubbing the back of his neck. That thing he does when a call, or apparently a conversation, is going worse than he wants it to. Whoever fixed that file has after-hours access. That's not a long list.

Is it you, I ask.

The question comes out before I mean to ask it. He looks at me, something sharp crossing his face, gone fast.

No. A beat. But I think I might know who it is.

So tell me.

Not yet, he says. Firm. Not unkind. Final, the kind of final that ends a conversation whether you want it to or not. I need to be sure first.

I think about pushing. I think about the second text sitting in my pocket. I decided to hold onto that one a little longer, too.

I stay late again. I tell myself it's the vendor contract. It isn't really about the vendor contract.

Around seven, his door opens.

Send me the presentation tonight when you're home, he says, leaning in the doorway. I want to look at it before the client calls tomorrow.

I can send it now, I say. It's basically done.

Then send it now. He pauses. And don't stay up finishing it. It's already good.

I smile more than the comment probably deserves. You've seen it. It's not done.

I've seen enough of your work to trust the rest of it, he says. He's already turning back toward his office, and then, almost like it slips out sideways, he adds, text me when you're in your car tonight.

Work thing or you thing, I ask.

He stops in the doorway. He doesn't quite look back. Does it matter which.

Then he's gone before I can answer.

I sent the presentation at seven forty. He replies inside a minute.

Good work. Genuinely.

Then, a second message.

Also, Whitmore. Don't tell Clara either. Not yet.

Why not Clara specifically, I write back.

Because I don't know who has access to that system anymore. I'd rather be careful.

I read that twice, and something cold settled under whatever warm thing had been sitting in my chest a minute ago. He isn't just being cautious about a file. He thinks it's someone close. Someone we both talk to every single day.

You think it's someone here, I type. Someone we know.

The reply takes longer this time.

I think it's someone I trusted once. I'm still figuring out how much.

I don't know what to say to that. I say goodnight instead, pack up, and head for the garage with my coat pulled tight against a cold that has nothing to do with the weather outside.

I'm almost in my car when the phone buzzes again.

Not him.

A different number this time.

Ask him about the last assistant who found the Whitmore numbers. Ask him what happened to her.

I stand there frozen in the empty garage, the message glowing up at me, my heart going hard enough that I can feel it in my throat.

Nobody had ever mentioned another assistant. Not once. Not Clara. Not HR. Nobody.

My hands are shaking a little as I type back.

Who is this?

Delivered.

Never read.