They had used Northbridge-backed credit lines to conceal losses on three overseas projects. Safety inspections had been falsified.
Pension funds had been borrowed against without proper disclosure. A bridge reinforcement contract in Pennsylvania had been billed twice through separate subsidiaries.
And the Calderon Transit bid—the one someone had attempted to steal—was worth 2.4 billion dollars.
Winning it would save Harrow.
Losing it would expose them.
Miriam stood beside the window, reading from a tablet.
“The unauthorized login used Adrian’s company credentials.”
I sat at the head of the table in borrowed sweatpants and one of my mother’s old cardigans. The wine smell still lingered in my hair despite two showers.
“Can they prove he was physically at the terminal?”
“Security cameras cover the hallway outside the study, not the room itself.”
“Who entered?”
Miriam hesitated.
“Celeste Harrow.”
I looked up.
“Adrian’s sister?”
“At 8:14 p.m. She stayed for six minutes.”
That did not fit.
Celeste had barely spoken at dinner. She had looked frightened, yes—but not calculating.
“Was anyone with her?”
“No.”
Miriam placed the tablet in front of me.
A grainy still image showed Celeste entering the study. She wore a dark green dress. Her shoulders were drawn high. In one hand, she carried a small silver clutch.
At 8:20, she came out without it.
“Maybe she left the drive,” I said.
“Possibly.”
“Or removed it.”
“Also possible.”
I stared at the image.
During dinner, Celeste had not laughed.
When the wine hit me, she had flinched as if struck herself.
Preview
“Find her,” I said.
Miriam’s expression changed.
“We already tried. Her phone is off.”
At 2:07 a.m., someone began pounding on the penthouse door.
Security moved before I did.
The hallway camera appeared on the wall monitor.
Celeste stood outside, drenched in rain.
She had no coat.
There was blood on one side of her face.
I was already moving.
“Clara,” Miriam warned.
“Let her in.”
Two guards opened the door.
Celeste stumbled across the threshold and nearly collapsed. I caught her beneath the arms.
She weighed almost nothing.
Up close, I saw that the blood came from a cut above her eyebrow. Purple fingerprints were forming around her wrist.
“Who did this?”
“My uncle.”
“Malcolm?”
She nodded.
Her teeth chattered.
“He knows I took it.”
“Took what?”
She pulled a small silver drive from inside her dress.
The same one visible in the security footage.
“I didn’t steal from you,” she said. “I stole from them.”
Miriam took the drive but did not connect it.
“What’s on it?”
