Chapter 4 - The Ledger Behind the Books
I changed into the oversized shirt behind the bathroom door, splashing cold water onto my face to stop the panic.
When I stepped back into the bedroom, Graham was seated behind his immense desk, staring at a weathered cardboard file folder.
A glass of neat bourbon sat untouched beside a brass reading lamp.
The anger that had been simmering inside me for three months finally boiled over.
"Tell me what Everett meant at the museum," I demanded, crossing the Persian rug and standing across from his desk.
"Go to sleep, Audrey," Graham said without looking up from the documents.
"No," I snapped, slamming my hand down onto the polished wood. "I almost took a bullet tonight because of your family feuds! Tell me about Miles!"
Graham’s head snapped up, his jaw clenched so hard a muscle twitched violently along his cheek.
"You don't want to open this door, Audrey."
"I was a compliance auditor for six years, Graham," I said, leaning in until our faces were inches apart. "I know how numbers lie. My father is an honest man. He didn't build faulty platforms."
Graham stared into my eyes for three agonizing seconds, his breathing shallow.
Then, he shoved the cardboard file across the desk toward me.
"Read it yourself," he whispered, his voice hollow and suddenly cracked with pain.
I opened the folder under the warm lamplight, flipping through old engineering reports, safety logs, and bank statements from four years ago.
The handwriting on the initial load-bearing certification was undeniably my father’s signature.
My heart sank into my stomach as I traced the faded ink, wondering if the man who raised me had truly been negligent.
Then my eyes caught the second page—a subcontractor procurement voucher dated twelve hours before the collapse.
"Wait," I murmured, my auditor's instincts overriding the fear. "Look at the steel batch serial number."
Graham frowned, leaning forward slightly. "What about it?"
"The certified load test was approved for Grade 60 structural titanium-alloy framing," I pointed out, tapping the original manifest. "This invoice lists an emergency shipment substitution for Grade 40 scrap rebar."
"That substitution was authorized by your father's engineering firm," Graham insisted, though his voice lacked its usual certainty.
"No, it wasn't," I said, flipping to the bank transfer record stapled to the back of the invoice.
"Look at the clearing routing number on the wire transfer for that cheap steel. That's not my father's corporate account."
Graham froze, his dark eyes narrowing as he leaned closer to examine the microscopic digits on the routing code.
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"That account belongs to a maritime logistics holding company based in Portland," Graham whispered slowly.
"A company owned by Everett Vale," I said, looking up into Graham’s stunned, pale face.
