Chapter 3 - Forty Percent
Vivian closed the door.
“Exact words,” she said.
I repeated them.
Then I added, “I couldn’t see the beginning. I’m confident about ‘her mother.’ Less confident about the verb.”
Nicholas nodded.
“Then that’s how we report it.”
Something in my chest loosened.
I had spent years watching people treat uncertain information as useless until it became convenient to call it certain.
He was listening to what I actually said.
Vivian left to update the officers.
Nicholas stood at the window, careful to stay beside the heavy curtain.
“What happens at midnight?” I asked.
“The fireworks. A short speech. Usually I step onto the terrace.”
“So somebody knew your schedule.”
“Yes.”
Lucia looked down at her folded hands.
“I approved the terrace arrangement.”
“That doesn’t make this your fault,” Nicholas said.
“No,” she answered. “But it means someone used my invitation.”
Her voice had lost its humor.
For the first time, I saw the age beneath her elegant dress and diamond earrings.
She looked tired.
A uniformed detective arrived twenty minutes later.
Her name was Elena Ruiz. She wore practical shoes and the patient expression of someone who had already heard too many wealthy people explain why normal procedures shouldn’t apply to them.
She took my statement separately.
I liked her immediately.
“Lip-reading gives us a reason to investigate,” she said. “We’ll need evidence beyond it.”
“Please put that on a billboard.”
She almost smiled.
I told her about the message, the photograph, Graham’s use of my name, and the hallway conversation.
When I mentioned my mother, her expression sharpened.
“We’ve connected the reports. She’s safe with officers until her friend arrives.”
I pressed both hands against my knees.
“Thank you.”
Afterward, Nicholas asked whether I wanted food.
I looked at him.
“Is that really your next question?”
“You’ve been holding an unopened gift bag for an hour. I’m guessing dinner didn’t happen.”
I glanced down.
Peppermint hand cream.
Fuzzy socks.
My emergency contribution to organized crime’s holiday gathering.
“Something without prime rib,” I said.
He smiled properly this time.
It changed his face in a way I didn’t appreciate under the circumstances.
Mickey brought sandwiches.
He also brought my coat, which I had apparently dropped near the entrance without noticing.
“I canceled the proposal presentation,” he whispered.
“Thank you.”
“Your face was going on a screen thirty feet wide.”
I stared at him.
“Where did you get my face?”
“I didn’t. That was the technical obstacle.”
Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose.
Lucia looked deeply disappointed.
While we ate, I learned that the gala raised money for a housing foundation established by Nicholas’s late mother.
I also learned that the foundation funded accessible apartments.
“My mother applied for one of those,” I said.
Nicholas looked up.
“When?”
“Last spring. Her building’s entrance buzzer doesn’t have video. She missed deliveries, repair appointments, everything.”
“Was she approved?”
“No. The program closed.”
His expression shifted.
“It didn’t close.”
The room went still.
Lucia set down her sandwich.
“Nicholas.”
He was already reaching for his phone.
I took out mine and searched my old messages.
Mom had sent me the letter because she wanted help with the wording.
Application canceled. Program suspended pending restructuring.
At the bottom was a logo shaped like three overlapping roofs.
Harbor Light Housing Initiative.
Nicholas read the letter twice.
“That program received another eight million dollars in June.”
Nobody spoke.
Then Mickey said, very quietly, “Graham supervises the foundation accounts.”
Nicholas looked toward the ballroom.
For the first time, I understood that the evening might involve more than someone wanting him dead.
There was money missing.
There were vulnerable people waiting for homes that apparently still existed on paper.
And there was my mother’s application, denied by the same family that had invited two hundred people to drink beneath crystal chandeliers.
Nicholas placed my phone carefully on the table.
“Before tonight,” he said, “I thought I had a bookkeeping problem.”
Lucia closed her eyes.
“What did you actually have?” I asked.
May you like
He met my gaze.
“A reason for someone to stop tomorrow’s audit.”
