Chapter 7: The Friend Who Sold the Introduction
I didn't call Connor that night.
I sat with it.
I fed the boys their dinner and bathed them and put them to bed and sat in the chair between their cribs in the dark for a long time.
Everett slept with one arm thrown over his head.
Felix slept curled on his side, one fist pressed against his cheek.
I had known Connor Ashby since we were nineteen years old.
In the morning I drove to Thomas's office and we went through everything for three hours.
The forensic examiner had already submitted a preliminary finding on the signature — not yet official, but clear.
The signature on the transfer deed had been constructed from samples.
Lifted from documents I had signed and digitally reassembled.
'That's not something Marcus Hale did alone,' Thomas said.
'That requires access to original signed documents.
Physical or scanned copies.'
'Genevieve had access to my office.'
'Yes.
But getting those documents out without you noticing would have taken time and planning.
And someone who knew which documents to look for.'
'Connor,' I said.
Thomas set down his pen.
'Connor works in financial consulting.
He would know exactly which estate documents carry the most legal weight.
He would know what to look for and what to copy.'
I thought about the eight months ago conversation.
The investment opportunity Connor had brought to me.
The one I had turned down.
I had never asked what happened to it — whether he had found another backer, whether it had fallen through, whether the money pressure had continued.
'How much was he paid?' I said.
'We don't know yet.
The email chain will tell us more once we have full access.' Thomas folded his hands on the desk.
'Dorian, I need to ask you something directly.
Is there any chance Connor Ashby had legitimate access to your estate documents?
Any reason you might have shared them with him voluntarily?'
'No.'
'Then we have a second individual involved in document fraud, and potentially in a conspiracy to defraud.' He paused.
'This is no longer just a broken engagement.'
I called Connor from the parking garage outside Thomas's building.
He answered on the second ring.
'Dorian.
I heard about you and Genevieve.
I'm sorry, mate.
What happened?'
'I'd rather talk in person,' I said.
'Can you come to the house this afternoon?'
A beat.
Barely noticeable.
'Of course.
Is everything all right?'
'I'll explain when you get there.'
He arrived at three.
He came through the front door the way he always had — easy, familiar, like someone who belonged.
He shook my hand.
He asked about the boys.
He sat down in the living room and looked at me with the open, concerned face of a man who had been my friend for fifteen years.
I put the printed email on the table between us.
The one with his address in the copy field.
He looked at it.
He didn't pick it up.
'Connor,' I said.
'Tell me what happened.'
The open face didn't collapse.
It shifted.
Something behind it went very quiet.
'Where did you get that?' he said.
'It was recovered from Marcus Hale's files.
There are fourteen months of emails between Hale and Genevieve.
You're copied on several of them.' I kept my voice level.
'I'm not asking if you were involved.
I'm asking you to tell me how it started.'
He looked at the email for a long time.
Then he looked at me.
'I needed money,' he said.
'The investment failed.
I owed people I couldn't owe.
Genevieve came to me — she already knew about you, she'd done her research — and she offered me fifty thousand to make the introduction and stay available.'
'Stay available.'
'To confirm details.
Your schedule.
When you traveled.
What documents you kept at the house.' He stopped.
'I never touched the documents myself.
I told her where they were.
What to look for.
That's all I did.'
'That's all you did,' I said.
He had the decency not to repeat it.
'She told me it was just estate planning,' he said.
'That she wanted to protect herself in case things went wrong.
I didn't know about the forged signature.
I swear to you I didn't know about that.'
I stood up.
'Thomas Whitfield will be in contact with you.
I'd recommend you cooperate fully.'
'Dorian—'
'I'd also recommend you get your own attorney.'
He stood.
For a moment he looked like he was going to say something else — an explanation, a justification, a version of events that made it smaller than it was.
Then he looked at my face and didn't.
He walked to the door.
He stopped with his hand on the frame.
'I'm sorry,' he said.
'I genuinely am.'
The door closed behind him.
I stood in the living room and looked at the email still on the table.
May you like
Fifty thousand pounds.
That was the price of fifteen years.
