Chapter 8 - THE MONEY TRAIL THAT LED BACK TO ME
Paul Keller looked twenty years older when Maya and I showed him the photograph.
He sat behind his desk with the image open on his computer monitor.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then he removed his glasses.
"I remember that evening."
I leaned forward.
"Why was Victor Sloane there?"
Paul sighed.
"North Harbor was considering several development partnerships. Ridgeway was one of the companies involved in early negotiations."
"Did we ever sign a contract?"
"Not for the larger development."
"But we paid them?"
"Some consulting expenses were approved."
"Two hundred fourteen thousand dollars?"
He winced.
"Those transactions are exactly what the internal review is investigating."
I studied his face.
"Paul, did you know Victor before this?"
"Professionally. Not personally."
"Did you know he was connected to my husband?"
"No."
His answer came without hesitation.
I wanted to believe him.
And unlike Julian, Paul didn't seem offended by the question.
He looked tired.
Concerned.
Ashamed that the company had allowed suspicious financial activity to continue.
"I owe you an apology," he said.
I blinked.
"For what?"
"When you first questioned those invoices, I should have taken the concerns more seriously."
He gestured toward the files.
"I assumed the problems were administrative. The documentation looked incomplete, but the department handling the project assured me it would be corrected."
"And you believed them."
"I did."
He paused.
"That was my mistake."
I appreciated the admission more than he probably realized.
Julian had never once acknowledged wrongdoing without immediately finding someone else to blame.
Paul wasn't offering excuses.
He was taking responsibility.
The company's outside investigators had discovered several irregularities.
Dennis Cole had been authorized to access portions of North Harbor's office infrastructure during a series of renovations.
His access should have ended after the project.
Instead, some administrative permissions had remained active longer than intended.
The investigators were now examining whether those permissions had been abused.
"What about my credentials?" I asked.
Paul looked down at the report.
"We have evidence someone submitted approvals while impersonating you."
"Can you prove it wasn't me?"
"We're working on it."
"That's not an answer."
"I know."
He looked directly at me.
"Morgan, I believe you. But we need records strong enough to establish what happened."
I pressed my lips together.
Belief was comforting.
Proof was necessary.
I was learning the difference.
At noon, Detective Ortiz arrived with another investigator.
She interviewed Paul and requested additional financial records.
I sat in the conference room while they discussed transaction dates, vendor records, and discrepancies in access logs.
For years, I had worked with these documents.
Invoices had been ordinary things.
Numbers.
Dates.
Purchase orders.
Now each page felt like another piece of a trap built around me.
One invoice was for $38,400.
Another was for $51,200.
A third listed $26,750 in vaguely described consulting services.
Together, the questionable transactions totaled $214,600.
The receiving accounts were connected to Ridgeway Property Solutions or businesses associated with it.
But the most disturbing discovery involved the approval records.
Several entries carried my employee identification.
Not merely my name.
My actual login credentials.
I stared at the screen.
"Someone knew my password."
The investigator nodded.
"That's one possibility. We're examining whether your account was misused through other access methods as well."
I remembered Julian borrowing my old laptop.
Sometimes he claimed his computer was too slow.
Other times he said he needed to print something urgently.
I had trusted him with my devices.
My passwords.
My home.
My savings.
There were very few boundaries he hadn't tried to cross.
"Could Julian have used my computer?" I asked.
Ortiz looked at me.
"Did he have access?"
"Yes."
"Then we'll document that."
Later, Paul asked me to return to his office.
His expression was grim.
"Morgan, there's something difficult we need to discuss."
I sat down.
He folded his hands.
"The company is dealing with potential financial losses, and our legal advisers want the review conducted independently."
I felt cold.
"What does that mean for me?"
"You're being placed on paid administrative leave while the investigation continues."
For several seconds, I couldn't speak.
I'd worked for North Harbor for nine years.
I had never received a disciplinary warning.
I had stayed late during audits.
Covered for sick coworkers.
Corrected errors that nobody else noticed.
Now I was being removed because someone had used my identity.
"Paul, I didn't steal that money."
"I know what you're telling me."
"Then why am I being punished?"
"This isn't a finding of wrongdoing."
"It feels like one."
He nodded slowly.
"I understand."
I stood.
For a moment, anger burned through the fear.
"Do you know what I've sacrificed for this job?"
Paul didn't interrupt.
"Nine years," I continued. "Nine years of showing up, doing everything correctly, and making sure every dollar was accounted for."
My voice shook.
"And now somebody uses my name, and I'm the one who gets sent home."
He looked genuinely pained.
"I wish I had a better answer."
I wanted to slam the door.
Instead, I gathered my belongings.
I would not give anyone a reason to call me unstable.
Not Julian.
Not Victor.
Not the people helping them.
Maya found me outside the building.
She had heard.
"I'm sorry."
I shrugged.
"I suppose this is what happens when your life becomes a criminal investigation."
"That doesn't make it fair."
"No."
We walked toward the parking garage.
I felt hollow.
First my marriage.
Then my savings.
Now my career.
Julian hadn't merely tried to take the cottage.
He had managed to make me feel like a stranger in every part of my life.
Maya stopped beside her car.
"What are you thinking?"
I stared at the concrete floor.
"That maybe I should have noticed sooner."
She shook her head.
"You noticed the invoices. You questioned them. You tried to protect the company."
"But I didn't notice my own husband."
Maya's expression softened.
"Morgan, somebody being dishonest with you isn't proof that you're bad at seeing the truth."
I wanted to believe her.
Someday, perhaps I would.
That evening, Paul called unexpectedly.
His voice sounded different.
Urgent.
"Morgan, are you alone?"
"No. Maya's here."
"Good. I need you to tell Detective Ortiz something immediately."
I sat upright.
"What happened?"
"We ran another review of the system records."
"And?"
"Your employee account was disabled when you went on leave."
"I know."
He took a breath.
"But an authorization bearing your identification appeared in the system afterward."
I stared at the wall.
"That's impossible."
"Exactly."
"How could someone use a disabled account?"
"We don't have the full answer yet. But the entry appears to have been created or altered from inside the administrative system."
My heart began racing.
"Meaning somebody at North Harbor is still helping them."
Paul didn't answer immediately.
May you like
Then he said the words that changed the entire investigation.
"Morgan, whoever framed you is still inside the company—and they're still trying to make it look like you're stealing money."
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