The Woman He Erased

Camille

Camille Ward selected not a boardroom, but a coffee shop three miles from the office, a decision I was prepared to note the moment I spotted her, already seated, hands curled around a cup of coffee she does not seem to intend to drink.

Not that she seems so old, close up. Vulnerable, perhaps, and certainly not the calculating woman described by Corinne, who methodically leveraged her position to maneuver someone into the company fourteen months prior to her planned arrival.

"Thank you for meeting with me," I say, sliding into the seat opposite her. "I have to admit, I was not certain you would accept my call."

"Forged emails, planting you in the company of accused embezzlers. I find it hard to fault one's curiosity over such a show."

"I didn't forge them. I mean, I constructed them. Marguerite is the one who chose the targets."

"Same thing, essentially."

"I know, and I think you need to hear this before we bring the matter to the board, because once we do, I will no longer have influence," Camille says quietly, hands tightening around her cup. "Marguerite is my godmother. She paid for my tuition, my mortgage for the first two years after graduation, until I found a position in the field. I thought nothing of agreeing when she asked me to take up the marketing post when I did, and then it took me three months to realize that in addition to the salary, she expected to extend her generosity into her resources. Things, rather unimportant things, that she asked that I pass on to her discretion at first, without question."

"You are aware that in most cases of abuse, those things tend to balloon out of control?" I ask gently.

"I am," she whispers, her fingers digging into her palm. "I knew, when it all came out to me, that I would be better served in any personal career, in any field, rather than continuing to work for her. The realization was not so very difficult to make, when one is already on one's knees. Marguerite made that very plain, to me when she dismissed me last week, and before that, to Reeves. She has that knack, Ms. Voss, of casting aside people that she has used, with little regard for their welfare, once they lose their utility to her."

It is a peculiar thing to hear said so bluntly by someone who is not me, and who certainly would not have used these words had she been asked by the board, which is why I am not entirely surprised by her next statement. "Why are you telling me this, rather than your lawyer?"

"Because I want an offer from you, before the board sees these transcripts. Rather than waiting until the moment of reckoning, perhaps, when one is already felled." There is a pause, then a small, almost reluctant smile as she nods to herself. "And because I have the means of ensuring that, rather than simply taking Mr. Reeves's testimony, you will have written proof. Marguerite does not believe in verbal directives. Everything she asks of people is documented."

There is a small flash of the drive she slides across the table to me, the fourth such similar object I have seen this week, though this one may prove to be its culmination.

"Your instructions for the embezzlement scheme, the falsified communications five years ago, and, perhaps, information on Marguerite's will and Damian's inheritance," Camille says, watching my face closely. "I think she intended for him to be dependent upon the company rather than the trust fund, but whether that was her hope, or her plan to keep him under her control as well, I cannot say."

I am silent for a moment, the ambient noise of the cafe pressing in around my ears as I process this. Marguerite's machinations were not, it seems, limited to ruining men by manipulating them. She was, at the very least, capable of doing so while intending to enrich them as well. She wanted to destroy my marriage, perhaps, but in doing so, not merely to remove me from her life, but to diminish him, to weaken him, hold his advancement in check in order to keep him subservient.

"Why are you telling me this, rather than the board?"

"Because you are the only one of these people that I have encountered thus far who is capable of fighting for something beyond their self-interest," Camille replies. "Reeves confessed, in part, because he had no other recourse, and in part, because he wanted to mitigate his own punishment. I intend to do the same, before it is too late to take any action at all." I take the drive in my hand, turning it over once before slipping it into my pocket. "I will speak to the legal team about some sort of cooperation agreement. I cannot offer you immunity, but I can at least ensure that your share of the fallout will be minimized."

"That is all I can ask," Camille says, with a small smile. "Thank you, Ms. Voss."

I have just ended my call with Damian when I step out of the coffee shop, the drive burning a square hole in my pocket.

"Ms. Voss," I say, without preamble. "She gave me everything. All the information on Reeves, the falsifications five years ago, the theft. Marguerite is deliberately delaying your trust fund payments in order to keep you in financial dependence on the company rather than your own resources."

There is a pause, and I almost pull the phone away from my ear to check that it has not been disconnected.

"Damian?" I ask finally.

"She told me, when I asked, that the delays were standard procedure," he says quietly. "I do not know why she told me. I never asked why anything was the way it was, before. I just never thought to, it seems."

"You could hardly have done so, when she ensured that you did not have the information in the first place."

"That is precisely the reason, it seems, that she ensured that I did not." He pauses again, his tone darkening slightly. "How much did you love someone, knowing that you did not know him at all, because his mother made sure that neither of you had that chance?"

I have no answer to that, because I suspect that he does not truly want one.

"Come to the office," I say instead. "Bring your lawyer. We will discuss this properly. It is time for an end to this."

"I will be there in twenty minutes," he says, and I am struck by the almost foreign sound of him saying something that sounds like the beginning of something rather than the end.