Chapter 6
The first showed a set of documents on a desk — pages of figures, a signature at the bottom.
Harold recognized the letterhead.
Walton & Sons Holdings.
He recognized the signature too.
His own.
Except he had never signed those documents.
"What is this?"
"Victor had your signature replicated on a series of financial transfers," Anna said.
"He moved money through a subsidiary account and covered it with your name.
About three hundred thousand dollars over eight months."
Harold's hands tightened on the photographs.
"But that's not why I left," she said.
"I found out by accident.
I was in your office one afternoon — you were away, and I needed a file — and I opened the wrong drawer.
I saw the originals.
I didn't understand all of it, but I understood enough."
"You should have come to me."
"I tried." Her eyes met his.
"That night.
I called you.
Victor answered your phone."
Harold's chest tightened.
"He told me you were unavailable.
I said it was urgent.
He said he'd pass on the message." She paused.
"Two hours later, he came to my apartment."
"What did he say?"
"He said he knew what I'd found.
He said if I went to you, he'd make sure I looked like the one who'd done it.
He had things prepared — documents, emails, a paper trail that pointed straight at me." She said it without emotion, the way a person recites a thing they have rehearsed to survive.
"He said I had two choices.
Leave quietly and he'd never use them.
Stay and he'd destroy me."
"Anna—"
"I was twenty-two, Dad.
I had no money, no lawyer, no proof that held up against what he'd built.
And he was your son.
Your chosen one." She shook her head.
"I believed him.
That's the part I've never forgiven myself for.
I believed he'd do it, and I ran."
Harold set the photographs on the bed beside him.
His hands were not entirely steady.
"The man he had come after you.
May you like
Just now.
Derek."
