Chapter 8: Before the Window Closes
Grace called at eight that evening.
"My contact at the financial crimes unit reviewed everything I sent him," she said.
"The footage, the document photographs, the email, the receipt, Diane Colter's connection to the firm.
He's taking it."
He was standing in the kitchen.
He set his glass down.
"What does that mean?"
"It means they open a formal investigation.
They'll move to compel records from Ashworth and Merritt — Diane Colter's access logs, correspondence, any client files she touched that overlap with your father's trust.
They'll also pull Ryan's financial records and his communications with Patrick Merritt."
"How long does that take?"
"The compulsion order, a day or two.
The records review, a week at most — they'll prioritize it given the transfer window.
My contact wants this wrapped before end of month."
"And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you go to work tomorrow and you act like nothing has changed.
Can you do that?"
He thought about Ryan leaning back in his chair, talking about a bigger office.
"Yes," he said.
"Good.
One more thing.
The trust management firm confirmed the flag is in place.
Any contact from any outside party requesting information or action on your father's account gets routed to me.
If Ryan or Merritt tries to move early, we'll know within the hour."
He exhaled.
"Grace.
If this had gone through — if they'd gotten the signed page somehow, gotten the transfer executed—"
"It would have been recoverable," she said.
"Eventually.
But it would have taken years and cost you significantly.
They knew that.
That's why they built it this carefully."
He thought about eight months.
About all the Tuesday and Thursday mornings.
"He needed the housekeeper," he said.
"She was the key.
She gave him access to the house, kept Lily occupied, made sure no one was watching.
Without her, he couldn't have gotten to the study."
"Yes.
And she'll face her own consequences — breach of duty of care, potentially more depending on what the investigation turns up about her role and what she knew."
"She knew enough," he said.
"She did."
He went to work the next morning.
And the morning after that.
He sat across from Ryan and discussed client accounts and answered questions and watched his partner operate with complete confidence, the ease of a man who believed he had already won.
On the third day, Grace called at two in the afternoon.
"Step outside," she said.
He went to the lobby.
"They executed the warrant this morning," she said.
"Ashworth and Merritt.
They pulled Diane Colter's access records.
She accessed your father's trust file eleven times over the past eight months.
She also accessed three other client files — two of which have already flagged irregular transfer requests in the past year."
"She's done this before."
"With Ryan, or with other partners — we don't know yet.
But yes.
This is not the first time."
He stood in the lobby of his office building and looked out through the glass doors at the street.
"They're bringing Ryan in for questioning this afternoon," Grace said.
"I wanted you to know before it happened."
"Today?"
"Within the hour, I think.
You should probably not be in the office."
He took the stairs back up.
Ryan was on the phone, laughing.
He looked up when the door opened and held up one finger — one minute — and kept laughing at whatever was being said on the other end.
He sat at his desk.
He thought about Lily's hands, red and raw on the marble floor.
He thought about the watch under her pillow.
He thought about her voice: *Daddy…
she wasn't alone.*
He was still sitting there when the two men in suits came through the office door forty minutes later and asked for Ryan by name.
Ryan's laugh stopped mid-sentence.
He set the phone down slowly.
"What is this?" His voice was still controlled, but something had gone out of it — the ease, the warmth, the ten years of practiced confidence.
"Mr.
Calloway.
We'd like you to come with us and answer some questions."
Ryan looked across the room.
He was looking directly at him.
He held his partner's gaze and said nothing.
Ryan's jaw tightened.
He looked back at the two men.
"I'll need to call my attorney."
"You're welcome to do that," one of the men said.
"You can make the call from our office."
Ryan stood.
He picked up his jacket from the back of his chair.
He straightened his cuffs — a habit, automatic, the gesture of a man who managed appearances — and then he looked across the room one more time.
"How long?" Ryan said.
His voice was quiet now.
Almost curious.
"Long enough," he said.
Ryan nodded once.
Then he walked out between the two men without looking back.
The office was very quiet.
His assistant appeared in the doorway, wide-eyed.
"Should I—"
"Cancel his afternoon appointments," he said.
"Tell them something came up."
He picked up his phone and called Grace.
"It happened," he said.
"I know," she said.
"I heard from my contact.
Patrick Merritt is being contacted separately.
And Diane Colter was escorted out of Ashworth and Merritt an hour ago."
He looked at the empty desk across the room.
"It's done?" he said.
"The investigation is ongoing.
But the immediate threat to the trust is over.
They won't be able to execute anything now." A pause.
"Go home.
Be with your daughter."
He shut down his computer.
He drove home.
Lily was in the garden with Mrs.
Pearce, crouched over something in the grass — a beetle, he discovered when he got closer, that she had decided needed to be relocated to a safer location near the flower bed.
She looked up when she heard the gate.
"Daddy.
Come look.
He's very fast."
He crouched down beside her.
The beetle was, in fact, very fast.
"We have to move him," Lily said seriously.
"Before someone steps on him."
"You're right," he said.
"We do."
They moved the beetle together, Lily directing the operation with great authority, and when it disappeared into the soil near the roses she stood up and brushed her hands on her jeans with the satisfaction of a job completed.
She slipped her hand into his.
"Is the bad stuff over now?" she asked.
He looked down at her.
"Yes," he said.
"It's over."
She considered this.
"Good," she said.
"Can we have pasta for dinner?"
He laughed — a real one, the first in days, the kind that comes from somewhere lower than the chest.
May you like
"Yes," he said.
"We can have pasta."
