The Woman He Erased

Reeves

Reeves is not what one would expect from six years of artfully executed theft. That's what makes him good at his job, after all.

I see him now across the conference table, eight minutes late, hands clasped together, the same unreadable expression on his face as he used to wear every morning he brought me coffee and pretended not to see when Marguerite made me flinch. Across from his mother and I, Damian waits, not in his mother's camp as one would be excpected to see given their previous alliances, but on my side of the table, a position I find just as surprising as I find his very presence here surprising at all

"Mr. Reeves," I say, sliding the file across the table to him just as I did for Marguerite, a movement that seems to echo with an unintended sort of harmony, given how soon afterwards it was done for the both of us, "eleven transactions, six years, three shell companies, all funneled through Damian Cross's accounts." I pause, watching his face for some reaction. He looks just as surprised as I might feel to see me using the same speech as Marguerite did five years ago, when I was first hired to investigate these very allegations. "Do you care to explain?"

Reeves does not open the file. "I am not aware of any unauthorized transactions taking place."

"Your access logs say otherwise."

"Circumstantial evidence," he replies evenly, "If someone were to frame me, they would benefit from creating evidence just as circumstantial."

"Funny, so did you when this all began," I note, "and no one in this family was very pleased to hear your theory." I catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes die away behind his carefully composed mask, as if he's been doing just that for the last six years, working out his inevitable exit strategy in his head for the moment he feels the conversation is most appropriate

"Reeves, you've known me since I was nineteen," Damian says, leaning forward. "Whatever this is, whoever is responsible for this, you need to think very carefully about whether or not you want this to come up before the board." Reeves does not seem surprised to hear it, really, but there is a tension in his jaw that suggests he wasn't prepared to hear it quite yet. "This is your opportunity to step in before they take this out of my hands and into the hands of the district attorney."

"You don't understand what she asked of me," is all Reeves says.

"Marguerite," I say, and that seems to be enough of an answer, all things considered.

"I was going to lose my pension," Reeves continues quietly. "Twenty-two years with the Cross family and with your father's stroke, Ms. Cross, your mother decided she would have me fired without severance if I didn't 'lubricate the system,' as she put it." He pauses, staring at nothing in particular before he continues. "I didn't realize it would go on for as long as it did and by the time she stopped me, I didn't know how to stop."

"You framed me," I say. "You are the reason the board dismissed the previous allegations of embezzlement against Cross Industries five years ago."

There is no response to this, not even from Reeves himself, who seems to have nothing further to say in his own defense.

"She needed a scapegoat," he says finally, and the expression on his face is not one of malice or pride or even fear, but rather resignation. "She needed someone the board would believe without asking too many questions and you were the most convenient option available. I provided the documents, and I'm ashamed to admit that I really didn't think about anything else at the time."

There is something strangely anticlimactic about having just heard that, something that has very little to do with the five long years I spent investigating this case. I thought I would feel vindicated, perhaps, or triumphant, or even angry, but all I feel is tired. "I've spent the last five years imagining this conversation," I say absently. "Wondering what it would be like to finally hear the truth come out instead of having to dig for it through layers of forged documents and blood trails leading back to your front door, wondering if it would feel like this, if finding the truth would feel like this."

"It does," Damian says quietly.

"Why are you telling us this?" Damian asks, because that is the next question that needs to be asked, and perhaps the most important.

"Your mother's audit was one signature away from being officially filed as a subpoena," Reeves says, and then he hesitates, considering something for a moment. "Besides, I'm sixty-one years old and I rather like the sound of being honest with myself before my time runs out than spending the rest of my days protecting a woman who never cared to protect me at all."

Afterwards, when Reeves is taken away by his lawyers, his compliance with the legal process making it clear that he will not be pressing any charges against anyone, Damian and I sit in the now-empty conference room, listening to the silent ticking of the clock on the far wall, in a silence that feels different from all the others we've shared this week.

"You were right," he says finally, and I blink in mild surprise. "About all of it." He shakes his head. "I should have questioned her more, I should have protected you instead of swallowing everything whole because it was easier." I feel a strange sense of detachment from these words, as if they aren't quite mine to say.

"You should have," I say, and that is all I say, because it is the truth. There really isn't anything else to be said about it.

"I know an apology won't undo five years," he says quietly.

"No," I say, and he nods as if he expected nothing less.

"I still don't think you did the right thing coming back here to investigate Cross Industries at all," he says, and I nearly laugh at the sheer absurdity of that, if he hadn't been so serious about it himself. "But I'm glad it was you." There is something strange about his voice when he says it, something oddly sincere and unselfconscious. "I don't know that anyone else would have been able to find the truth like you did. I certainly couldn't have."

Something in me stirs at that, something that had been locked away for the last five years. "Don't mistake this for forgiveness," I say quietly, standing from my seat behind the conference table so as to put some physical distance between us all before standing. "I'm just glad you're not a stranger to me anymore, even if you still think I hate you."

I make no effort to deny the second part of that, because perhaps it isn't entirely true either. My phone vibrates as I walk away, just before I reach the exit, and I glance down to see the display reading Priya's name.

Marguerite just requested an emergency board meeting. It's tonight. She says she has proof that clears her completely.

I stop in my tracks. Whatever it is she intends to bring forth in her defense, I have little doubt that it will not be the entire truth, but after everything that has just transpired, I am beginning to wonder if the truth is something she is willing to sacrifice to protect her company, her legacy, or even herself, after all.