A BEAUTIFUL KIND OF RUIN

The letter arrived on a Tuesday morning, three days after Nadia Ellis buried the last photograph of her father. She found it beneath her apartment door, lying on the faded welcome mat as if someone had slipped it there and hurried away before she could hear them. There was no stamp. No return address. Her name was written across the envelope in black ink. Nadia Ellis. She stood in the doorway for several seconds, listening. The corridor was empty. Outside, the city carried on as usual. Cars sounded their horns below her window, a neighbour argued with someone over the phone, and the smell of fried eggs drifted through the thin walls of the apartment. Everything was ordinary. That was what made the envelope frightening. Nadia locked her door before opening it. Inside was a single sheet of paper and a business card. She read the letter first. Miss Ellis, Your father left something unfinished. If you want to understand what happened to him, come to Blackwood Estate tomorrow at nine in the morning. Ask for Mr Adrian Blackwood. Come alone. There was no signature. Nadia read it again. Then she read it a third time, searching for some indication that the letter was a cruel joke. Her father had been dead for seven years. Seven years since a late-night telephone call had brought two police officers to their house. Seven years since her mother had sat at the kitchen table, staring at nothing, while Nadia tried to understand how a man who had left for work that morning could never come home. The official report had called it an accident. Her mother had called it a tragedy. Nadia had never called it either. There had been too many unanswered questions. Too many missing documents. Too many conversations that ended whenever she entered a room. And now a stranger was telling her that her father had left something unfinished. She turned the business card over. ADRIAN BLACKWOOD Chief Executive Officer, Blackwood Holdings. Nadia knew the name. Everyone who followed business news knew the name. Adrian Blackwood had inherited a struggling company and transformed it into one of the most powerful private investment groups in the country. Newspapers described him as brilliant, disciplined and merciless in negotiations. His photographs rarely showed him smiling. She searched his name on her phone. An article appeared at the top of the results. The Blackwood Heir: The Man Who Never Loses. Nadia almost laughed. Of course. A man with enough money to buy half the city had apparently decided that mysterious letters were a reasonable way to communicate. She should throw the envelope away. She should call the police. She should do anything except follow instructions from someone connected to the family her father had once warned her about. Instead, she looked at the small stack of unpaid bills on her kitchen counter. Her temporary job at a publishing office had ended the previous month. The rent was due in five days, and her savings had dwindled to an amount she preferred not to calculate. She had spent seven years trying to move forward without answers. Perhaps it was time to stop pretending she could. Nadia placed the letter inside her bag. Tomorrow, she would visit Blackwood Estate. But she would not go alone in the way the letter demanded. She would tell Ethan where she was going, share her location and keep her phone charged. Curiosity was one thing. Carelessness was another. Blackwood Estate stood beyond the city, behind iron gates and a long driveway lined with ancient trees. By the time Nadia arrived the following morning, the sky had turned the colour of old silver. She stepped out of the taxi and looked up at the house. It was enormous. Dark stone walls rose beneath steep roofs, and tall windows reflected the cloudy sky. The architecture was beautiful in the way expensive things often were—impressive from a distance, intimidating up close. A security camera turned towards her. Nadia resisted the urge to wave at it. The gates opened before she reached them. A man in a charcoal suit stood at the entrance. “Miss Ellis?” “Yes.” “Mr Blackwood is expecting you.” She followed him inside. The entrance hall smelled faintly of polished wood and fresh flowers. A staircase curved towards the upper floor, and a large painting hung above the fireplace. The woman in the painting had dark hair, a serious expression and a silver necklace resting against her throat. Something about her face seemed familiar. Nadia couldn't decide why. “Wait here, please,” the man said. He disappeared through a set of double doors. Nadia remained in the hall, studying the painting. “She's been dead for twelve years.” The voice came from behind her. She turned. Adrian Blackwood stood at the foot of the staircase. He was younger than she had expected, perhaps in his late twenties, with dark hair and a face that appeared permanently resistant to amusement. His black shirt was open at the collar, and a watch gleamed at his wrist. He didn't look like a man who enjoyed surprises. He looked like a man who charged other people for creating them. “Your mother?” Nadia asked, nodding towards the painting. “My aunt.” “I'm sorry.” “You didn't know her.” “No. But I can still express sympathy.” Something flickered across his expression. “Fair enough.” He gestured towards the double doors. “Come with me.” His office occupied the eastern wing of the house. Tall shelves covered two walls, and the windows overlooked a garden that looked as though it had been designed by someone who disliked disorder. Adrian indicated a chair. Nadia sat. He remained standing. “You received my letter.” “I did.” “And you came.” “I have questions.” “I'm sure you do.” “Then let's begin with the obvious one. How did you know my father?” For the first time, Adrian's composure seemed to tighten. “Your father worked for Blackwood Holdings for eleven years.” Nadia stared at him. “No, he didn't.” “He did.” “My father was an accountant for a small manufacturing company.” “He was a financial auditor assigned to several of our subsidiaries. His employment records are available.” “That isn't what my mother told me.” “Perhaps your mother had reasons for keeping certain things from you.” Nadia's fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “Be careful.” Adrian raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?” “You invited me here because of my dead father. You don't get to insult my mother five minutes into the conversation.” For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Adrian pulled a folder from his desk and opened it. “I didn't invite you here to discuss your mother.” He removed a photograph and placed it between them. Nadia leaned forward. It showed her father standing outside a building she recognised from the old photographs in their family album. Beside him was a younger man in an expensive suit. Adrian. Nadia looked from the photograph to the man across the desk. “How old were you here?” “Twenty-one.” “And my father?” “Forty-three.” “What were you doing together?” “Discussing a financial discrepancy that eventually became much more complicated than either of us anticipated.” “That's a very elaborate way of saying nothing.” His eyes met hers. “You've always been this direct?” “Only when people waste my time.” For the first time, Adrian almost smiled. Almost. He took the photograph back. “Your father was investigating missing funds. Shortly before his death, he discovered evidence that someone within the company had been moving money through accounts that shouldn't have existed.” Nadia felt the room grow colder. “And you think he was murdered?” “I think his death was treated as a closed matter far too quickly.” “That's not an answer.” “No,” Adrian said quietly. “It isn't.” She stared at him, searching his face for something she could recognise as honesty. “Why contact me now?” “Because a document recently came into my possession.” “What document?” “One that suggests your father kept a copy of the original financial records.” “And you think I have it?” “I think he may have left it with someone he trusted.” Nadia thought of her mother. The old boxes in the cupboard. The papers she had never examined because looking through them felt too much like reopening a wound. “Why would I help you?” “Because the truth about your father matters to you.” “And what does it matter to you?” Adrian closed the folder. “That depends on what you discover.” She stood. “You want me to investigate my own father's death for you, but you won't tell me what you're looking for?” “I want you to organise the private archive in this house. The position is temporary, well paid, and you'll have access to documents that may answer your questions.” Nadia blinked. “You brought me here to offer me a job?” “I brought you here because I believe your father left something behind, and because you're more likely to recognise it than anyone else.” “Why not hire a professional archivist?” “Because a professional archivist wouldn't know what your father was thinking when he wrote a particular note, or why he might have hidden a document inside an ordinary folder.” That was annoyingly reasonable. “And what exactly would I be organising?” “Correspondence, financial records, private papers and older company documents. The archive hasn't been properly reviewed in years.” Nadia glanced towards the windows. The house suddenly seemed much larger than it had when she arrived. “How long?” “Three months to begin with.” “And the pay?” He named a figure. Nadia tried not to react. It was enough to cover her rent, settle her debts and finally give her some breathing room. She hated that money could make a questionable decision look sensible. She hated even more that she needed it. “I have conditions,” she said. Adrian leaned back against his desk. “I'm listening.” “I keep copies of anything relevant to my father's case. I can leave whenever I choose. And if I discover that you're withholding information that puts me in danger, the arrangement ends immediately.” His expression turned unreadable. “You negotiate like someone who expects betrayal.” “I've had practice.” He considered her for a long moment. “Agreed.” She hadn't expected that. “Just like that?” “Did you want an argument?” “No. I just thought a man like you would be more difficult.” “A man like me?” “Rich. Powerful. Used to getting his way.” “Those qualities are often confused with intelligence.” Despite herself, Nadia laughed. It escaped before she could stop it. Adrian looked at her as though the sound had surprised him. For one brief moment, the tension between them changed. Then he straightened. “You can begin tomorrow.” “I haven't accepted the job.” “But you're considering it.” She picked up her bag. “Don't mistake consideration for agreement, Mr Blackwood.” “I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Ellis.” He walked her to the office door. Just before she stepped into the corridor, he spoke again. “One more thing.” Nadia turned. “The western wing is closed. The documents there are private, and some of the rooms aren't safe for visitors.” “Then lock them.” “They are locked.” “Good. That makes your warning unnecessary.” His expression hardened. “I'm serious, Nadia.” It was the first time he had used her first name. She didn't like how naturally it sounded in his voice. “I heard you.” She left without looking back. That evening, Nadia sat on the edge of her bed, considering the job offer. She had told Ethan about the meeting. He had responded with a string of messages insisting that the entire arrangement sounded suspicious. She agreed with him. Still, suspicion wouldn't pay her bills, and walking away wouldn't bring her any closer to the truth. She took the photograph Adrian had given her from her bag. Her father looked younger in it, with the same crooked smile he used whenever Nadia accused him of taking life too seriously. She turned it over. There was a date written on the back. Fifteen years earlier. Beneath it, someone had added a short note. The original remains where the family keeps its sins. Nadia read the sentence twice. Then she noticed the initials in the lower corner. A.B. Adrian Blackwood. Her phone rang. Ethan's name appeared on the screen. She answered. “Tell me you didn't accept the job.” “I haven't decided.” “Nadia, please. Blackwood is the last name you want attached to this investigation.” “Why?” He went quiet. She sat up straighter. “Ethan?” “Did he tell you about the missing money?” “Yes.” “And the original records?” “Yes.” Another silence. Then Ethan said something that made her stomach drop. “Your father called me the night he died.” Nadia stopped breathing for a moment. “What?” “I was seventeen. He asked me to tell you something if anything happened to him.” “What did he say?” Ethan's voice lowered. “He said that if you ever met Adrian Blackwood, you should run.” Nadia looked down at the photograph. Outside her window, the first drops of rain began to fall. She thought of Adrian's calm voice, his careful answers and the locked western wing of the estate. Then she looked at the initials on the back of the photograph. A.B. Perhaps the warning had come fifteen years too late. Perhaps she was already standing too close to the truth. But Nadia Ellis had spent seven years living with questions nobody wanted to answer. She wasn't going to stop now. Even if the man who held the answers turned out to be the one person she should never trust.