Chapter 6: Inside the Walls
Grace saw my face and took the phone from my hand before I could speak.
She looked at the photograph.
Then at Rosalind.
Then back at me.
"Driver," she said, "change of destination.
I'll give you the address."
She leaned forward and spoke quietly.
The car turned left at the next block.
"My files," I said.
"The copies I kept there—"
"Tell me exactly what was in that apartment."
"Backup copies of everything I gave Reyes.
Encrypted drives.
And one physical document I hadn't copied yet — a letter.
Handwritten.
From Thomas Whitmore to a solicitor in Edinburgh.
I found it inside the ledger, folded into the back cover."
Rosalind's head turned sharply.
"Thomas wrote a letter?"
"I don't know when.
It wasn't dated.
But it referenced the payment from Celeste.
And it referenced a name I didn't recognize — someone called the Edinburgh contact." I pressed my hands flat against my knees.
"I was going to research the name before handing it over.
I didn't want to give Reyes something I couldn't explain."
"Is the letter still there?" Grace asked.
"I don't know.
That photograph was taken from inside the apartment.
Someone has been in there.
Whether they found the letter—" I stopped.
"I hid it well.
But I don't know."
Grace was already typing on her phone with one thumb.
"I'm having someone go there now.
Before we arrive."
"Who?"
"Someone I trust." She didn't elaborate.
"In the meantime, tell me the name from the letter."
"Harlan Voss," I said.
Grace's typing stopped.
"Celeste's brother-in-law," I said.
"Adrian's uncle on his father's side.
He died twelve years ago.
Officially." I looked at her.
"I think you see where this is going."
"A second person connected to the Voss family declared d*ad who may not be," Grace said.
"Or who was actually d*ad, and whose death was not what it appeared to be."
Neither of us said the word that was sitting in the middle of that sentence.
We didn't need to.
The car pulled up outside a building I didn't recognize — a narrow townhouse on a quiet street, the kind of building that had no signage and a very solid door.
"What is this?" I asked.
"A colleague's office," Grace said.
"We're not going to your apartment.
We're not going anywhere Celeste's people might expect." She got out and held the door.
"Come on."
Inside, the building was warmer than it looked.
A front room with two desks, both occupied by people who glanced up and then went back to their screens without comment.
Grace led us through to a back room — a conference table, four chairs, a whiteboard covered in case notes that someone had partially erased.
A man was already there.
Late fifties, gray at the temples, reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.
"This is Warren," Grace said.
"He's been working the financial side of this case independently for the past four months."
Warren looked at me.
"Ms.
Calloway.
I've read everything you sent Grace.
You did meticulous work."
"Thank you."
"I have something to show you." He turned the laptop on the table to face me.
"This is the Westchester storage facility.
Our contact got there before Crane did.
Before Celeste's call, actually — we've been watching that facility for six weeks."
On the screen: a photograph of a storage unit.
Metal shelving.
Banker's boxes, dozens of them, labeled in a handwriting I recognized.
Celeste's handwriting.
"How many boxes?" I asked.
"Forty-three," Warren said.
"We've been cataloging the contents remotely since Tuesday.
Most of it is financial records going back twenty years.
But three of the boxes—" He clicked to the next image.
"Three of the boxes contain correspondence.
Personal correspondence.
Between Celeste and someone she refers to only as H."
Rosalind made a small sound.
"H," I said.
"Harlan."
"That's our working assumption." Warren looked at me over his glasses.
"Ms.
Calloway, some of this correspondence is very old.
It predates Adrian's company by fifteen years.
And some of it—" He paused.
"Some of it discusses Thomas Whitmore by name.
Specifically, it discusses what Celeste describes as a problem that needed to be managed."
The room was very quiet.
Rosalind stood up from her chair.
She walked to the window.
She stood there with her back to us, looking out at the narrow street.
Nobody spoke.
After a long moment, she said: "How do I get copies of those letters?"
"We're working on the legal pathway," Warren said gently.
"It won't be long."
She nodded.
Didn't turn around.
My phone buzzed on the table.
Grace picked it up before I could.
Her face changed.
"What?" I asked.
She turned the phone to face me.
It was a message from Agent Reyes.
*Adrian Voss released on his attorney's emergency motion forty minutes ago.
Hargrove filed before we completed processing.
He's out.
We're working to reverse it.
Stay where you are.*
I looked at Grace.
"He's out," I said.
"For now."
"Celeste bought him enough time."
"Yes."
I thought about the text message.
*You should have left.* I thought about the photograph of my apartment, taken from inside.
I thought about Philip Crane with a bolt cutter, and forty-three boxes in a storage unit, and a letter from a d*ad man folded into the back of a ledger.
And I thought about Adrian straightening his jacket at the altar, looking at me with that last calculated stare.
*This isn't finished.*
May you like
He had been right about that.
But so had I.
