The Woman He Erased

What the Numbers Show

The second letter is worse than the first. Not in content, but in the raw, unfiltered piece of himself Damian has placed in it. By the fourth letter, I have given up pretending to myself that I am not doing this for any reason other than curiosity.

By the seventh, Priya calls me. Actually calls me, which means she has finally stopped waiting for an answer.

"Elena, get in here. Now."

I close the laptop with ten unread letters and tell myself that it's not because the situation seemed desperate enough that I wanted to save the rest for later, like some kind of rationed rationing.

Priya has the forensic accountant waiting in the tiny conference room when I get there, her name is Corinne, and the monitors already glow with spreadsheet upon spreadsheet of figures.

"Walk me through it," I say, taking a seat.

"The embezzlement was a diversion," says Corinne, and it's not hard to imagine the look on her face as she says it; I've worn the same one in the last five days at the sight of Cross Industries' financial records. "Someone planted forged records in order to discredit the company when the investigation started. It's messy, obvious counterfeiting, and predictably, it failed spectacularly today. What they didn't realize is that they'd hidden something else entirely in there with it."

She brings up another set of figures, this one connected by arrows to the previous reports in a lattice of stolen funds, and makes a noise low in her throat before she even finishes explaining why it's there. My stomach knots before I've even heard the details.

"They've been skimming off the company for six years," says Corinne. "Smaller amounts, nothing large enough to raise suspicions, and funneled through a couple of consulting companies they've set up for the purpose. They knew the system well enough that it never would have been noticed if it wasn't for the audit, but whoever did it knew precisely what they were doing. Someone with intimate knowledge of the company's inner workings."

"Marguerite," I say immediately.

"It's possible," says Corinne, but there is very little certainty in the word. "The authorization codes for eleven of these transactions, however, are logged under Damian's name."

The room goes very still. "That's impossible," I repeat, the words coming out too quickly. "I'm not saying he did it," says Corinne carefully. "I'm saying that his credentials have been used for this, which means either he planted those forgeries in the system himself, or someone else has been able to access them over the last six years without his knowledge."

I think of the seventeen letters Damian has sent me. I think of the man who has sent me seventeen letters and never once suspected that his company account was being drained in slow, steady amounts over the course of six years, and consider the possibility that he might have been better at his job than I have ever given him credit for.

"Who else has had access to his credentials?" I ask instead. Corinne brings up another document, this one with a short list of names on it. I know one of them well enough; Marguerite's personal assistant, Reeves, is a short, quiet man who used to bring me tea whenever the board of directors was in session and never, ever looked me in the eye. "Start with him," I say, and make a mental note to myself to stop thinking of Marguerite Cross as family and start remembering that she has always had someone else doing the dirty work for her. "Do it quietly. I don't want Marguerite to know about this until we find something solid."

Priya makes a note on her phone while Corinne goes to dig up the rest of the information. I lean back against the chair and feel my plans for revenge unravel in my hands for the first time since walking into that meeting five days ago. I came here intending to cut Marguerite down to size for what she did to me, but it's becoming very clear that this discovery is going to hurt a lot more than just the woman whose daughter I married for spite. It's going to hurt the eighteen percent of Cross Industries I now legally own, as well, and whatever plans I had for selling that off in pieces are suddenly looking very short-sighted.

My phone vibrates in my hand. Damian.

did you finish the letters

I stare at the message for several long seconds before replying.

Someone has been using your authorization codes to steal from your company for the last six years. I need you to come in tomorrow morning and tell me precisely who has had access to them.

He replies almost immediately, and not with the kind of anger I would have expected if he really thought this was his doing.

That's impossible. I'm the only one who---

He stops there, and I see three little dots blinking on the screen in exactly the same rhythm that he used to type them out when we were together. His fingers hovering over the keys for just a moment before he sighs and lets them fall away.

Reeves has my old codes. From before the divorce. I never had them changed because I didn't think anything of it

I close my eyes briefly, and feel something akin to relief at the sheer absurdity of it all. It's almost poetic in a way that has nothing to do with the situation at hand; it's not Damian's fault, and it certainly isn't Marguerite's, but both of their lives are going to be extremely difficult to navigate in the coming few days because of one man who has spent the last six years sipping bitter coffee and watching the people around him with empty, calculating eyes. Tomorrow at eight am, I type out, bring your lawyer. This isn't just a matter of principle anymore.