Chapter 3 - The Accountant Who Was More Afraid Than I Was

Vincent knocked once at nine-fifteen and tried the handle before I told him to enter.

That bothered me more than it should have.

For nine years, he had walked into my office without waiting because I had trusted him enough to make permission unnecessary. The locked door changed the meaning of a habit I had once considered proof of loyalty.

He stepped inside carrying no folder.

“You locked me out.”

“I locked everyone out.”

“That’s new.”

“So is someone stealing from me.”

He closed the door behind him.

I watched his hands.

Nothing about Vincent looked nervous. His tie was perfect. His breathing was even. His silver hair was combed back from a face that had learned patience long before I did.

“Holloway Development,” he said.

I let the silence stretch.

“How do you know that name?”

“The bank called one of our finance people before they froze the transfer.”

“Which finance person?”

“Martin.”

“Last name.”

“Keene.”

I knew Martin Keene. Forty-seven. Controller at Mason Hospitality. Two daughters at Emory. A habit of sweating through his collars whenever I entered a room.

“Why would the bank call Martin before Lena?”

Vincent’s expression barely changed.

“Because Martin handles Peachtree.”

“Then why did he call you?”

“He panicked.”

“That happens around you?”

“It happens around us.”

There it was.

Us.

The old language.

I leaned back.

“Tell me about Holloway.”

Vincent folded his arms.

“Probably somebody trying to get your attention.”

“They succeeded.”

“The name is old. Someone knew you’d react.”

“Who?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be standing here talking about it.”

I studied him.

He studied me back.

Once, when I was twenty-six and stupid enough to think rage could substitute for strategy, Vincent had pulled me out of a parking garage before three armed men closed the exit. He had taken a bullet through the shoulder and laughed in the emergency room because he said I looked more offended than frightened.

Loyalty had history.

So did betrayal.

“Did you know about the security token in my drawer?” I asked.

His eyes moved once.

Not to the drawer.

To me.

“Yes.”

“Yesterday you told Lena the device was known only to me, her, and Nancy.”

“I said the authorization system was restricted.”

“No. You said the token itself was.”

He exhaled through his nose.

“You’re sick, Dominic.”

“I had a fever. It did not damage my memory.”

“I’m not accusing your memory.”

“It sounds like you are.”

Vincent stepped closer.

“I knew because your father used the same system in his last years. Different hardware. Same idea.”

“My father’s system had nothing to do with mine.”

“No. But men like you repeat certain habits.”

Men like you.

Another phrase I stored away.

“Why didn’t you tell me you knew?”

“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”

“Everything matters when money leaves my account with my approval while I’m unconscious.”

He looked toward the window.

“You think I did it.”

“I think someone did.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“No.”

For the first time, anger broke through his control.

“I gave your father twenty-three years. I gave you nine. I buried men who tried to touch this family.”

“And now I am asking a question.”

“You’re asking it like a stranger.”

“Maybe I should have asked more questions years ago.”

His jaw tightened.

Then he smiled without warmth.

“That maid has been here six weeks and suddenly you’re discovering principles?”

The room changed.

“Leave Megan out of this.”

“Why?”

“Because she has nothing to do with it.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know enough.”

“You know she sat beside your bed and you woke up sentimental.”

My hand tightened against the armrest.

Vincent saw it.

He had always been good at seeing what other people tried to hide.

“That’s dangerous,” he said quietly.

“What is?”

“Caring where people can see it.”

I had heard that lesson before.

My father had taught it without words.

The people you loved became leverage. The people you trusted became doors. The more powerful you were, the more expensive tenderness became.

For twenty years, I had lived as if loneliness were the price of surviving.

“Get out,” I said.

Vincent held my gaze.

Then he nodded.

“As you wish.”

When the door closed, I remained still for nearly a minute.

Then I called Lena.

“Run Martin Keene.”

“Already am.”

“Also pull every access record tied to Rourke for the last six months.”

A pause.

“That’s a large request.”

“Do it.”

“Dominic.”

“What?”

“If you’re wrong about him, this damages a relationship you may not be able to repair.”

“If I’m right?”

“Then you’ve had a problem much longer than yesterday.”

I ended the call.

By noon, the fever had returned enough for Nancy to threaten me with a hospital.

I compromised by agreeing to eat soup.

That was how Megan found me in the breakfast room, glaring at a bowl as if it had insulted me.

“You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Noah was in a high chair beside her eating pieces of banana with the concentration of a surgeon.

Megan sat across from me with a sandwich she had brought from home.

“You’re supposed to be cleaning.”

“You’re supposed to be resting.”

“We have both failed.”

She smiled.

I watched Noah drop a piece of banana.

He looked down at it.

Then at me.

I looked away.

Megan laughed softly.

“You scare grown men and lose arguments to fruit.”

“I am not arguing with your child.”

“You looked judged.”

“I was judged.”

She took a bite of her sandwich.

For a few minutes, neither of us spoke.

The quiet felt different from the silence I usually demanded. It did not feel empty.

It felt occupied.

“Why did you take this job?” I asked.

Megan glanced up.

“Money.”

“Besides money.”

“That’s a very rich-person question.”

“I am aware.”

She considered.

“My last job cut my hours after Noah got sick three times in one month. Day care sent him home. I missed shifts. They said they needed reliability.”

“Were you unreliable?”

“I was a single mother with a toddler.”

“That was not my question.”

“It’s the only answer that matters.”

I understood the edge in her voice.

“What happened to his father?”

Her face closed.

“He left before Noah was born.”

“Why?”

“Because some people like the idea of responsibility more than the part where you have to show up.”

She stared at her sandwich.

“I stopped waiting for him.”

There was no self-pity in the statement.

Only fact.

I knew something about stopping.

“Did you love him?”

She looked at me.

“That is absolutely none of your business.”

“Fair.”

She blinked.

“You said fair.”

“I occasionally recognize boundaries.”

“Write down the date.”

Noah slapped the tray.

Megan gave him another piece of banana.

I watched her hand.

Steady. Ordinary. Kind.

“Rourke asked whether you leave your office unlocked,” she said.

My attention returned to her.

“You remembered something else?”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“He didn’t ask like security.”

“What does that mean?”

“He asked like he already knew the answer and wanted to see what I’d say.”

I waited.

“He said, ‘Dominic gets careless when he’s tired, doesn’t he?’”

I felt something cold settle behind my ribs.

“What did you say?”

“That you don’t seem careless about anything.”

“Flattering.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Of course.”

She leaned forward.

“Is he in trouble?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you?”

That question was harder.

“No.”

She held my gaze long enough to tell me she did not believe me.

Then footsteps approached.

Martin Keene appeared in the doorway.

He looked worse than I felt.

His shirt collar was damp. His face was gray.

“Mister Mason,” he said.

Megan started to stand.

“Stay,” I told her.

Martin’s eyes flicked toward her, then back to me.

“I need to speak with you.”

“Speak.”

“Privately.”

“No.”

His throat moved.

“Sir—”

“You called Rourke this morning.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Martin looked at the floor.

“Because the bank called me.”

“That explains the first call.”

He froze.

Megan became very still.

“What first call?” Martin asked.

“The one you made after the bank contacted you.”

His eyes widened.

I had guessed.

Now I knew.

“Who did you call before that?” I asked.

Martin’s hands began to shake.

“Dominic,” Megan said quietly.

Not warning.

Observation.

Martin was terrified.

Not of me.

Of whoever he believed might learn he had come here.

“I can’t,” he whispered.

I lowered my voice.

“Martin. Look at me.”

He did.

“If someone threatened you, I need to know.”

His mouth opened.

Closed.

Then he reached inside his jacket.

Security moved in the hallway.

I raised one hand.

Martin pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

Not a weapon.

He placed it on the table.

It was a property ledger.

Three Mason restaurants.

Two parking structures.

One warehouse.

All marked for transfer.

At the bottom was my signature.

Every transfer was dated over the next thirty days.

“I was told to process them,” Martin said.

“By who?”

He looked at Megan.

Then at the hallway.

Then back at me.

“Vincent Rourke.”

No one moved.

Martin swallowed.

“He said by the time you realized what was happening, it wouldn’t matter.”

The breakfast room seemed suddenly too bright.

For nine years, Vincent had been the man I called when I needed certainty.

Now certainty was sitting on my table in the form of six stolen properties and a frightened accountant.

Megan’s voice came softly from across the room.

“What happens now?”

For most of my life, the answer would have been simple.

Someone betrayed Dominic Mason.

Dominic Mason answered.

But Noah was watching me with banana on his hands.

Megan was watching me without fear.

And somewhere inside the house, a man who knew exactly how I used to solve problems was probably counting on me to do it again.

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“I don’t know,” I said.

It was the first time I had admitted those words in years.