By the time Rachel and I left the lake house, dawn had begun thinning the darkness behind the trees.
Daniel was on his way to the hospital with Emily. The cut on his head appeared worse than it was, according to the paramedic, but his age and heart condition made observation necessary. Police had photographed the torn floorboards, the empty compartment, Daniel’s car, and the footprints around the boathouse. They had also taken my account of the anonymous messages.
For once, I did not have to convince anyone that something strange was happening.
A seventy-something man bleeding inside a ransacked boathouse helped.
Rachel drove.
I sat beside her with my mother’s photographed index open on my phone.
B-4-N.
Banking.
Fourth transfer series.
Northbridge.
The code looked simple now that Daniel had explained it.
That bothered me.
Nothing else had been simple.
“Paul Denning,” Rachel said.
I looked up.
“What about him?”
“You think he’s The Accountant.”
“I think he was an accountant. I think he worked for one of Eleanor’s family companies. I think he later became her attorney. And I think he controls access to the university collection containing records my mother helped hide.”
“That was not a yes.”
“It was the longest possible maybe.”
Rachel tightened her hands on the wheel.
“Do we tell the police?”
“We tell them facts.”
“Which facts?”
“That Denning controls the archive.”
“And that we suspect him?”
“Based on what?”
She sighed.
Exactly.
Suspicion had become plentiful.
Proof remained scarce.
My phone rang.
Thomas.
“Daniel is stable,” he said.
“Emily called you?”
“Yes.”
“Did she say whether he remembered anything else?”
“Only that the attacker wore gloves and smelled strongly of cigarette smoke.”
“That describes half the villains in bad movies.”
Thomas made a tired sound that might have been a laugh.
Then he became serious.
“I confirmed the Northwestern donation.”
“Collection Twenty-Seven.”
“Yes.”
“What exactly did Richard donate?”
“Corporate historical materials. Early correspondence, planning records, financial memoranda, photographs.”
“And hidden banking records.”
“Possibly.”
“Who approved Denning as custodian?”
“Richard.”
I frowned.
“That makes no sense.”
“It may have at the time.”
“When was the agreement signed?”
Thomas gave me the date.
Twenty-three years ago.
A year before Martin’s death.
Before Richard fully understood what was happening.
“So Denning’s control predates the investigation.”
“Yes.”
“Can he block me?”
“Potentially.”
“Can he remove material?”
“The donor agreement should prevent unauthorized removal.”
“That is not what I asked.”
Thomas was quiet.
“In practice, a custodian with enough access might manipulate records.”
Rachel glanced toward me.
“Then we go before he knows we know.”
Thomas said, “He may already know.”
The anonymous message had said exactly that.
He has been waiting for you.
I looked at the highway stretching ahead.
“Then we stop making his schedule our schedule.”
“What do you propose?”
“Sleep.”
Thomas sounded surprised.
“Sleep?”
“Yes. Shower. Eat. Talk to police again. Call the university through official channels instead of racing into another building because an anonymous stranger sends me a message.”
A pause.
Then Thomas said, “David would approve.”
My chest tightened.
“David kept secrets from me for nine years. He has temporarily lost voting privileges.”
Thomas did not argue.
We returned to Rachel’s house.
The dark sedan was gone.
The original index remained inside the hollowed book exactly where we had left it.
I photographed every page again under better light.
Then I sealed the original inside a plastic document sleeve and placed it in Rachel’s home safe.
The red folder remained in the car as bait.
I slept for ninety minutes.
When I woke, I had seventeen missed notifications.
None were from the anonymous number.
That frightened me more than another message would have.
At ten thirty, I called Northwestern’s special collections department.
I did not mention Denning.
I gave my full name and asked about Collection Twenty-Seven.
The woman who answered went quiet.
“Sarah Hayes?”
“Yes.”
“Formerly Sarah Cole?”
My heart kicked.
“Yes.”
“Would you hold, please?”
Rachel looked up from the kitchen table.
“They know you?”
“Apparently.”
A different woman came on the line.
“My name is Dr. Miriam Bell. I oversee restricted collections.”
“I’m calling about Collection Twenty-Seven.”
“I know.”
“How?”
“Your name is in the access instructions.”
I closed my eyes.
Of course it was.
“For how long?”
“The instruction was amended approximately eight years ago.”
David.
“What does it say?”
“I cannot disclose the complete donor restriction over the telephone.”
“Can I access the collection?”
“With identification and secondary verification.”
“What verification?”
“A phrase.”
I nearly laughed.
“A phrase?”
“Yes.”
“Do I know it?”
“I would hope so.”
Not helpful.
“Who created the phrase?”
“David Hayes.”
My throat tightened.
Rachel mouthed, What?
I wrote PASSWORD and DAVID on a notepad.
“Can Paul Denning prevent my access?”
Dr. Bell became careful.
“Mr. Denning is listed as an administrative custodian.”
“That did not answer me.”
“He cannot override an authorized beneficiary who satisfies the donor conditions.”
“Has he accessed Collection Twenty-Seven recently?”
“I’m not permitted to disclose another researcher’s access history without authorization.”
That was a yes disguised as policy.
“When can I come?”
“Today.”
“Does Mr. Denning receive notice?”
Another pause.
“Not automatically.”
Good.
I scheduled noon.
Thomas wanted to accompany us.
I told him to remain nearby but outside.
Marcus called while Rachel and I were driving.
“Mom knows about Northwestern.”
My stomach tightened.
“How?”
“She asked whether I had spoken to anyone at the university.”
“When?”
“Ten minutes ago.”
“Where is she?”
“She says home.”
“Still hearing highway noise?”
“No.”
“Did she mention Denning?”
“She said he was handling something for her.”
I looked at Rachel.
“Do not tell her where I am.”
“I haven’t.”
“Marcus.”
“Yes?”
“If she asks whether I found Mom’s index—”
“Your mother?”
“Yes.”
He was silent.
There were still pieces he did not know.
“Tell her no.”
“You want me to lie again.”
“I want you to stop volunteering information.”
“That I can do.”
At the university library, Dr. Miriam Bell met us personally.
She was in her early sixties, with close-cropped gray hair and a habit of studying people before speaking.
She checked my identification.
Then she looked at Rachel.
“Your sister?”
“Yes.”
“Rachel Cole?”
Rachel blinked.
“Yes.”
Dr. Bell nodded as though confirming something.
“You’re listed too.”
Rachel stared at me.
“I am?”
“As an alternate witness. Not an independent beneficiary.”
David had included her.
That hurt differently.
For all his secrecy, he had anticipated that I might need my sister.
Dr. Bell led us into a private reading room.
“Before I can release the restricted boxes, I need the verification phrase.”
“I don’t know it.”
“Mr. Hayes believed you would.”
“What is the question?”
She opened a sealed card.
“Where did David first apologize to you?”
I almost answered the coffee shop.
Then stopped.
That was where he first apologized for spilling coffee.
But the question was not where did you meet.
It was where did he first apologize to you.
A memory surfaced.
Our second date.
David had been twenty minutes late because he had gone to the wrong restaurant.
He arrived soaked from rain and furious with himself.
I teased him until he finally said, “I’m sorry, properly this time.”
Where?
A tiny Thai restaurant on Clark Street.
I gave Dr. Bell the name.
She smiled.
“Correct.”
Rachel whispered, “That is very David.”
Yes.
A security employee brought in three archival boxes.
Not twenty-seven boxes.
Collection Twenty-Seven was the collection number.
The first box contained ordinary corporate history.
Photographs.
News clippings.
Early financial reports.
The second was similar.
The third had a false bottom.
I noticed because my mother had once built one into a recipe box to hide emergency cash.
The cardboard sat a fraction too high.
I looked at Rachel.
She saw it too.
We lifted the panel.
Beneath it were six thin folders.
Each bore one of Mom’s codes.
B-1.
B-2.
B-3.
B-4-N.
My pulse accelerated.
Northbridge.
I opened it.
Bank records.
Actual bank records.
Not copies of summaries.
Transfer authorizations.
Account numbers.
Dates.
Signatures.
Richard.
Marcus.
Eleanor.
Samuel Vale.
And another set of initials.
P.D.
Rachel whispered, “Paul Denning.”
“Maybe.”
We kept photographing.
One transfer showed funds leaving a Richard-controlled company and entering Northbridge Consulting.
A second showed Northbridge transferring nearly the same amount two days later to a trust.
The beneficiary field was obscured.
But an attached memorandum carried Paul Denning’s signature.
He had been an accountant then.
Not Eleanor’s lawyer.
Not yet.
I read the memo.
It characterized the transaction as a tax restructuring.
Mom had written one word in the margin.
FALSE.
My hands trembled.
This was not proof Denning was The Accountant.
But it proved he had touched the transactions.
Another document contained Martin Vale’s handwriting.
P.D. insists E approved.
Ask Richard directly.
Rachel leaned closer.
“He knew.”
“Or he repeated what Eleanor told him.”
We needed more.
The next page gave it.
A handwritten note from Martin.
Paul changed the ledger after I signed off.
I stared.
There it was.
Not a verdict.
But an accusation from the dead partner.
I photographed it.
Then the reading-room door opened.
Dr. Bell stepped inside.
Her face was tense.
“Mrs. Hayes.”
“What happened?”
“Mr. Denning is here.”
Rachel and I looked at each other.
“How did he know?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you notify him?”
“No.”
“Can he enter this room?”
“Not without my authorization while you are using the collection.”
“Then don’t authorize him.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
For the first time that day, I liked someone immediately.
“Has he asked what I’m viewing?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That another authorized party was accessing the collection.”
“Did you use my name?”
“No.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded toward the documents.
“Take your time.”
The door closed.
Rachel whispered, “He knows anyway.”
Probably.
My phone vibrated.
Unknown number.
Finally.
You found Northbridge.
I showed Rachel.
Another message arrived.
Now find the transfer Martin never saw.
I stared at it.
Whoever was sending these messages knew what was inside the collection.
Maybe because they had seen it.
Maybe because they had created part of it.
We searched B-4-N again.
Nothing obvious.
Then Rachel noticed a sequence.
Every transaction was numbered.
401.
402.
403.
405.
“No 404.”
I checked.
She was right.
A missing transfer.
Martin never saw it because someone removed it.
But Mom’s index contained an entry:
B-4-N-404.
Beside it were two letters.
S.C.
My mother.
“She saw it,” Rachel whispered.
I searched the folder.
No 404.
Then I remembered the hollowed finance book.
The original index.
Maybe Mom had separated the most important record.
I called Rachel’s house landline from my cell.
No answer.
Of course.
Nobody was there.
Then my phone buzzed.
A photograph appeared.
The green finance book.
Sitting open on Rachel’s kitchen table.
My blood turned cold.
We had left it in the basement.
Someone was inside her house.
The next message came immediately.
Looking for this?
Click here to continue reading: PART 14: Someone Entered Rachel’s House for the Original Index, but the Missing Northbridge Transfer Was Hidden Somewhere My Mother Used Every Day
Before the Funeral Flowers Had Wilted, My Husband’s Family Was Already Deciding Which Pieces of Our Life Belonged to Them
Part 13 of 32
